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"Above and beyond this, Mr Weener, through an unfortunate series of events due to the confusion of the times without it, such an absurd situation would never have occurred several people: our own firm, our New York correspondents, and the present heads of Consolidated Pemmican are liable to prosecution by the Securities Exchange Commission. We can only throw ourselves on your mercy."
Her eyes might have been microscopes and I something smeared on a slide. "Weener, youre the sort of man who peddles Life Begins at Forty to the inmates of an old peoples' home." I couldnt see what had upset her. The last idea had sound salesappeal, but it was a low income market.... Oh well her queer notions and obscure reactions undoubtedly went with her scientific gift.
Understand, Weener, anything. Rocks, quartz, decomposed granite anything." She took a gold victorian toothpick from the pocket of her mannish jacket and used it energetically. I shuddered. "Unfortunately," she went on, a little indistinctly, "unfortunately, I lack resources for further experiment right now " This too, I thought despairingly.
He called me into his office and half raised the snuffbox off the desk as though to offer me an unwelcome pinch. "Youre a made man now, Weener," he said, thinking better of his generosity and putting the snuffbox back. "Your name will be in headlines from Alabama to Alberta and all due to the Intelligencer."
Ah, Weener, it restores my faith in human depravity to have you around to attempt your petty confidence tricks on me once more; I rejoice to find I had not overestimated mankind as long as I can see one aspect of it embodied in your 'homely face and bad complexion, as the great Gilbert so mildly put it.
I state a thought so old no one knows who first expressed it and a hearer feels bound to choose between offense to himself and contempt for the speaker. Believe me, Weener, I was offering no exclusive indictment: I too am guilty infinitely culpable.
"There is no profit for you in this politeness, Weener," she said abruptly. "I am here to beg a favor." "Anything I can do for you, Miss Francis, will be a pleasure," I assured her. She began using a toothpick, but it was not the oldfashioned gold one just an ordinary wooden splinter. "Hum. You remember asking me to superintend gathering specimens of Cynodon dactylon?"
Miss Francis, her toothpick suspended, stood in rapt contemplation. At the end of thirty minutes the spray was turned off and the containers rolled back into the car. Except for the artificial dew upon it, the moor looked exactly as it had before. "Well, Weener, are you going to stand there and gawk for the next twentyfour hours or are you coming back with us?"
But all this husbandman reaps is Cynodon dactylon. A commentary." "Progress," I pointed out. "Now they have machines to harvest grain. All uptodate farmers use them; only the backward ones stick to primitive tools and have to make a living by taking on odd jobs." "Progress," she repeated, looking from the scythewielder to me and back again. "Progress, Weener.
"You just mustnt forget to keep Pauline in mind, Mr Weener; she would be a terrific help when you become horribly rich and have to do a lot of stuffy entertaining." "Really, Winifred," protested Constance. "Help him to the poorhouse and a damned good riddance."
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