and Barney entered the sanctum of cerebration with apologetic misgivings for the request he wished to make.
As a matter of fact, Babbing had one of those minds that never consciously apply themselves to thought—that start like an engine when the mechanical load is thrown on, and work best when the necessity is pressing. He merely smoked a cigar as a sort of siesta, while his luncheon was “settling.” And he received Barney in the best of post-prandial moods, behind a cloud of tobacco smoke, at his ease in his swivel chair, mildly quizzical. “Well, what ’s worrying you?”
Barney rose, at once, to his humor. He replied, like a client: “I got a case ’at I want to see y’ about, Mr. Babbing.”
“Good. Sit down. What is it?”
Barney sat down, as part of the joke. “I want to get a bunch o’ phoney money to make a plant fer a fullah.”
“Uh-huh.” Babbing received it as if it were a request for a postage stamp, almost
