A Western Union boy, weary with the weariness of not less than forty
summers, was shuffling in at the gate.
"Sa-ay!" he called with the asperity of ingrained ennui--"either of
youse guys know a guy named Perceval Sybarite 't lives here?"
Silently P. Sybarite held out his hand, took the greasy little book in
its black oil-cloth binding, scrawled his signature in the proper
blank, and received the message in its sealed yellow envelope.
"Wait," he commanded calmly, eyeing Western Union with suspicion.
"W'at's eatin' you? Is they an answer?"
"They ain't no answer," P. Sybarite admitted.
"Well, whatcha want? I got no time to stick round here kiddin'."
"One moment of your valuable time. I believe you delivered a message
at the Monastery Apartments in Forty-third Street this morning."
"Well, an' what 'f I did?"
"Only this."
P. Sybarite extracted an immense roll of bills from his pocket;
transferred it to his other hand; delved deeper; eventually produced a
single twenty-dollar gold-piece.
"Take this," he said, tossing it to the boy with princely nonchalance.
"It's the last of a lot, but--it's yours."
"What for?" Western Union demanded in amaze; while, as for George
Bross, _he_ developed plain symptoms of apoplexy.
"You'll never know," said P. Sybarite. "Now run along before I come
to."
In the shadow of this threat, Western Union fled precipitately.
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