“Kind of poor trainin’ for it, I’ll admit,” says I.  “But buck up, Morty; we’ll do our best.”

“We?” says he, liftin’ his eyebrows.

“Uh-huh,” says I.  “Me and you.”

“What’s it got to do with you?  I’d like to know!” he demands.

“I’ve been retained,” says I.  “Never you mind how, but I’m here to pass out the friendly shove, coach you along, see that you make good.”

“Well, I like your nerve!” says he, stoppin’ short as we’re crossin’ Broadway.  “A young mucker like you help me make good!  Say, that’s rich, that is!  Huh!  But why don’t you?  Come ahead with it, now, if you’re such an expert!”

It was a dare, all right.  And for a minute there we looked each other over scornful, until I decides that I’ll carry on the friend act if I have to risk gettin’ my head punched.

“First off, Mortimer,” says I, “forgettin’ what a great man you are so long as Father’s payin’ the bills, let’s figure on just what your standin’ is now.  You’re a bum bond clerk, on the ragged edge of bein’ fired, ain’t you?”

He winces some at that; but he still has a comeback.  “If it wasn’t for that bonehead Miller, I’d get on,” he growls.

“Bah!” says I.  “He’s only layin’ down the rules of the game; so it’s up to you to follow ’em.”

“But he’s unreasonable,” whines Mortimer.  “He snoops around after me, finds fault with everything I do, and fines me for being a little late mornings.”

I takes a long breath and swallows hard.  Next I tries to strike the saintly pose, and then I unreels the copybook dope just like I believed it myself.

“He does, eh?” says I.  “Then beat him to it.  Don’t be late.  Show up at eight-thirty instead of nine.  That extra half-hour ain’t goin’ to kill you.  Be the last to quit too.  Play up to Miller.  Do things the way he wants ’em done, even if you have to do ’em over a dozen times.  And use your bean.”

“But it’s petty, insignificant work,” says Mortimer.

“All the worse for you if you can’t swing it,” says I.  “See here, now—­how are you goin’ to feel afterwards if you’ve always got to look back on the fact that you begun by fallin’ down on a twelve-dollar job?”

Must have got Mortimer in the short ribs, that last shot; for he walks all the rest of the way back to the Corrugated without sayin’ a word.  Then, just as we gets into the elevator, he unloosens.

“I don’t believe it will do any good to try,” says he; “but I’ve a mind to give it a whirl.”

I didn’t say so, but that was the first thing we’d agreed on that day.  So that night I has to send off a report which reads like this: 

Mortimer’s health O. K.; disposition ragged; business prospects punk.

Hoping you are the same,

Torchy.