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 Honestly, Gale, he'll be more pleased than if you were the biggest man in Wall Street, bless his old heart!"

Well, we finally get to the house and the butler lets us in, taking my cap and the classy belted raincoat. I was featuring then, like I'm the Duke of Diphtheria or the equivalent. I got on my best blue serge suit with a crease in it you could slice ham with, patent-leather pumps, black silk socks, a white silk shirt, and a expensive two-dollar blue silk tie. I got a wow of a diamond scarf pin in it, and altogether I check up pretty snappy, what I mean. Yet in this palace where you sink to your ankles walking across the rugs, with curving chairs and oil paintings and flashing mirrors greeting you at every turn, why, I feel in the whispering stage, like once when I visit the Academy of Fine Arts in Philadelphia, Pa.

Mr. Brock is sitting out on the glass-covered pazzaza at a little table and he certainly does look grand—just like one of them wealthy bankers does in the movies. He's a great, big, good-looking, powerfully built man, a man which could no doubt been a good heavyweight when he was younger. They's just a bit of gray at his temples and sitting there in his Tuxedo he sure checks up perfect, for a fact! Well, I'm a little bit scared to be standing there before all these dollars and don't think I ain't, but Mr. Brock gets up and shakes my hand and actually thanks me for coming over, can you imagine that? Then we all sit down and after we get the state of the weather and this kind of thing all settled, why, I soon put him at his ease with me.

Mr. Brock tells me I look fit to lick my weight in