It won't get you
anything. I've a proposition to make to you."
"But, madam," he declared with his naif and disarming grin--"believe
me--my young affections are already engaged."
"You're not half the imbecile you make yourself out," she judged
soberly. "Come--what's your name?"
Taking thought, he saw no great danger in being truthful for once.
"P., unfortunately, Sybarite," he said: "bookkeeper for Whigham and
Wimper--leather merchants, Frankfort Street."
"And how did you come by that coat and hat?"
"Borrowed it from a drunken cop in Penfield's, a little while ago.
They were raiding the place and I kind of wanted to get away. Strange
to say, my disguise didn't take, and I had to leave by way of the back
fences in order to continue uninterrupted enjoyment of the inalienable
rights of every American citizen--life, liberty, the pursuit of
happiness."
"I don't know why I believe you," said Mrs. Inche reflectively, when
he paused for breath. "Perhaps it's your spendthrift way with
language. Do you talk like that when sober?"
"Judge for yourself."
"All right," she laughed indulgently: "I believe everything you say.
Now what'll you take to do me a service?"
"My services, madam, are yours to command: my reward--ah--your smile."
"Bunk," observed the lady elegantly. "How would a hundred look to you?
Good, eh?"
"You misjudge me," the little man insisted.
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