can't pinch-hit for somebody else at a feed. A forty-year-old stomach won't stand for it."
Bert ate. Now that he was here, he found something holding back what it had been on his tongue to tell. He was reluctant to break the splendor of the dream that was all his. Gorged to the limit at last, he leaned back in his chair and stared blissfully across the table. The Butterfly Man, who had already lighted his pipe, stared back with gravity in his eyes.
"Get rid of it," he said pleasantly. "You'll feel better."
Bert was startled. "Get rid of what?"
"What you came out here to tell me. What have you done, robbed a bank? Set fire to a hospital? What's the crime? Learned to play a ukulele?"
Bert shook his head. "No; I'm going into business."
"Who are you going to work for?"
"It's my own business—a partnership."
The Butterfly Man, with a sudden motion, took the pipe out of his mouth. "With that smart-Alec clerk in your father's store? What a noodle-head I'm becoming! I might have known, the way he had you wrapped up in him, that there was a hook in it somewhere. How far have you gone? Have you put in any money?"
"Not yet; but I've signed a contract. We signed it last night."
