Henry's fists were doubled. "It isn't so much the ... the commercial side of it, Bob, but when I know you've always had me down for such an _incompetent_ sort of--"
"That was before the war. To tell the truth, old rubbish, last August I couldn't have seen it with the Lick telescope. Thought you were a great scout, of course--good pal--all that--but _business_; that's different. A friend's one thing; but a partner's a lot of 'em."
Henry was staring fixedly at him. "I wouldn't have any money to speak of--"
"Then don't speak of it. _I_'ll name the price. The price is your year's profit on the Orpheum."
There was a little silence. "When did you get this hunch, Bob?"
"But it was about then that I came in here one day, and--and you said you--you said one pal _couldn't_ boss another. You said--"
"Oh!... But as I recall it, you were talking about a job."
"Yes, and you said you wouldn't give me one! And ever since then I've been--"
"Idiot!" said Standish. "Is that what's been gnawing at his tender heart! Why, you astigmatic fool--why.... Stop right there! Certainly I wouldn't have you for an employé, but as a partner--that's different. If you apologize, I'll slay you. Shake hands and wipe it off your brain.... Now let's get back to business. We've got to have quick action."
As the train slowed for the station, and a score of other passengers began to assemble wraps and luggage, Mr. Theodore Mix sat calm and undisturbed, although inwardly he was still raging at Mirabelle for making a spectacle of him. It was fully half an hour ago that she had prodded him into activity, ignored his plea of greater experience in ways of travel, and compelled him to get the suitcases out to the platform (she didn't trust the porter), to help her on with her cape, and to be in instant readiness for departure. For half an hour she had sat bolt upright on the edge of her seat, an umbrella in one hand and an antique satchel in the other, and her air was a public proclamation that no railroad, soulless corporation though it might be, was going to carry her one inch beyond her destination.
By a superhuman effort, Mr. Mix removed his eyes from Mirabelle's convention badge. It was a chaste decoration of three metal bars, two sets of supporting chains, and a half foot of blue silk ribbon, with white lettering, and Mirabelle continued to wear it for two reasons: she was proud of it, and Mr. Mix had made his initial attempt to be masterful, and told her twenty-four hours ago that it looked as though she belonged to the Third Ward Chowder Club. Since then, she had reproached him afresh whenever she caught him looking at it. And inasmuch as it could hardly be avoided by anyone who cast the briefest glance in her general direction, he had been in hot water from Chicago to the present moment. He couldn't even escape to the smoking room.