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 you were conscious of it, you couldn't do it. But don't, for anything, let him think you need the 'job.

The warning was not necessary; for Don was already, unconsciously, playing the part for which his clothes had made him up. He had luncheon with Pittsey, and he accepted the assiduous deference of the waiter with a pleasant condescension. He accepted Kuffman, as he had accepted Kidder, in that boyish indifference of disinterest which had impressed the supers' agent. He was, in fact, content to leave all intercourse with Kuffman in Pittsey's hands. And since the ticket office was to be opened on the morrow, he was able to devote himself to helping Pittsey arrange the tickets in the pigeon-holed case beside the grated window, while he listened attentively to the instructions which Pittsey gave him concerning his small duties as relief man at the wicket during the "off" hours.

"You'll have to remember that you're a nickel-in-the-slot machine," Pittsey counselled, "and nothing more. The person outside puts in his money and gets his ticket. Never talk. Answer questions politely, but that's all. It's the only way to do the work. Never—never—never talk to anyone through those bars."

Kuffman, who was one of those fat men that overdress like dowagers, came into the office to give final directions about the tickets that were to be placed for sale at various hotel desks; and he asked Don suddenly: "Where did you get the necktie?"

Don turned, in his embarrassment, to Pittsey. "Where did we get it?"

Pittsey coughed deliberately. "Do you like it? I