Once he had asked, with something akin to vitality in his tone, "How can you, Bill, consent to spend the whole of your earthly life in the weighing, measuring and compounding of cold, inert forms of matter?"
"And how can you," Bill had retorted in immeasurable disgust, "how can you consent to spend your life in heathendom, roosting on top of a post for forty years, till your fingers grow through your fists? And more," he continued loudly, "I'll have you remember that these same cold, inert forms of matter stand for big, warm and lively DOLLARS. D'ye hear me, Mr. Dyanzy Chooanzy? While you're munchin' raw fodder and meditatin' in mouldy caves on the manifold mysteries of mankind, I'll be livin' up to the Queen's taste in Kankakee--swell front--mansard roof--stunning wife--bank stock--and--who knows--but the legislature or Congress or even"--and Bill paused modestly before nominating himself to the Presidency.
He only gazed at his companion with the wide, meaningless smile of one who Knows--he--Knows.
Then, shaking his head with vast, prophetic solemnity, he waved adieu and passed out--in impenetrable silence.
This devotee had learned, as do all those who delight in the name "Mystic," that nothing is more effective than this vague, superior silence, when confronted with the crude practicalities of the "Unillumined."
Then a truce prevailed between these erstwhile comrades until--the ever to be expected--the Unexpected--happened.
She was radiantly, 'wilderingly beautiful.
She was tall and lissom, leopard-jointed and swift.
She was one of those dulcet-toned, tawny peroxides, an houri, for whom the synonym is "havoc."
Chicago spoke in her every tone and gesture. Her movements were meteoric. Her eyes were X-rays. Her smile was sheet-lightning. She was alert, trim and tailor-made. Her very presence breathed the richness and aroma of her stock-yards training. The Spirit of Chicago, "I WILL," pulsed through her veins. "Push and Pull" was her motto. "Get there" was her creed.
Whoever is familiar with the fatal fascinations of a Chicago Typewriter can gauge the gait of the Kankakee pulse when Miss Imogene Silesia Sheets, late of the great packing house of Harmor & Co., was precipitated into the midst of that suburban society.