“After another one of them clubby lunches?” says I.

“What’s that to you?” he growls.

“I’m interested, that’s all,” says I.

“Oh, no, you’re not,” says he; “you’re just fresh.”

“Ah, come now, Morty,” says I.  “This ain’t no reg’lar feud we’re indulgin’ in, you know.  Ditch the rude retort and lemme tow you to a joint where for——­”

“Thanks,” says Mortimer.  “I prefer my own company.”

“Gee! what poor taste!” says I.

And it looked like I’d gone and bugged any five-spot prospects with my first try.

So I lets Mortimer simmer for a few days, not makin’ any more cracks, friendly or otherwise.  I was about to hand in a blank report too, when one noon he sort of hesitates as he passes the desk, and then stops.

“I say,” he begins, “show me that cheap luncheon place you spoke of, will you?”

It’s more of an order than anything else; but that only makes this sudden shift of his more amusin’.  “Why, sure,” says I.  “Soured on the club, have you?”

“Not exactly,” says he; “but—­well, the fact is, Father must have forgotten to send a check for last month’s bill, and I’m on the board—­posted, you know.”

“Then that wa’n’t any funny dream of yours, eh,” says I, “this club business?  Which is it, Lotos or the Union League?”

“It’s my frat club, of course,” says Mortimer.  “And I don’t mind saying that it’s a deucedly expensive place for me to go, even when I can sign checks for my meals.  I’m always being dragged into billiards, dollar a corner, and that sort of thing.  It counts up, and I—­I’m running rather close to the wind just now.”

“What!  And you gettin’ twelve?” says I.  “Why, say, some supports fam’lies on that.  Takes managin’, though.  But I’ll steer you round to Max’s, where for a quarter you can——­”

“A quarter!” breaks in Mortimer.  “But—­but that’s more than I have left.”

“And this only Wednesday!” says I.  “Gee! but you have been goin’ the pace, ain’t you?  What is the sum total of the reserve, anyway?”

Mortimer scoops into his trousers pockets, fishin’ up a silver knife, a gold cigar clipper, and seventeen cents cash.

“Well, well!” says I.  “That is gettin’ down to hardpan!  It’s breakin’ one of my business rules, but I see where I underwrite your lunch ticket for the next few days.”

“You mean you’re going to stake me?” says he.  “But why?”

“Well, it ain’t on account of your winnin’ ways,” says I.

“Humph!” says he.  “Here!  You may have this stickpin as security.”

“Gwan!” says I.  “I ain’t no loan shark.  Maybe I’m just makin’ an investment in you.  Come on to Max’s.”

I could see Mortimer’s nose begin to turn up as we crowds in at a table where a couple of packers from the china store next door was doin’ the sword swallowin’ act.  “What a noisy, messy place!” says he.