"I'll write it up."
"Do," he said. "It will make a clever sixth shove for me. People say
your fancies are too wild and extravagant even now. A story like
that will finish you at once."
"Again, thanks," said I, very calmly. "This time for the hint.
Acting on your advice, I won't write it up."
"Don't," he retorted. "And be forever haunted with the idea. Either
way, it suits me."
And he vanished once more.
The next morning Peters arrived at my house.
"I've come," he said, as he entered my den. "The scheme is perfected
at last, and possibly you can use it. You need help of some kind. I
can see that, just by reading your telegram. You're nervous as a
cat. How do you heat your house?"
"What's that got to do with it?" I demanded, irritably. "You can't
evaporate the little cuss."
"Don't want to," Peters replied. "That's been tried before, and it
doesn't work. My scheme is a better one than that. Did you ever
notice, while smoking in a house that is heated by a hot-air
furnace, how, when a cloud of smoke gets caught in the current of
air from the register, it is mauled and twisted until it gets free,
or else is torn entirely apart?"
"Yes, I have," said I.
Pages:
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89