the pinched forehead of the fanatic. Not wholly unpleasant, not particularly agreeable; the sort of individual one preferred to walk round rather than bump into. The clerk offered the register, and the squat man scratched his name impatiently, grabbed the extended key, and trotted to the elevator.
"Ah," mused the clerk, "we have with us Mr. Poppy—Popo" He stared at the signature close up. "Hanged if I can make it out! It looks like some new brand of soft drink we'll be having after July first. Greek or Bulgarian. Anyhow, he didn't awsk for a bawth. Looks as if he needed one, too. Here, boy!"
"Ye-ah!"
"Take a peek at this John Hancock."
"Gee! That must be the guy who makes that drugstore drink—Boolzac."
The clerk swung out, but missed the boy's head by a hair. The boy stood off, grinning.
"Well, you ast me!"
"All right. If anybody else comes in tell 'em we're full up. I'll be a wreck to-morrow without my usual beauty sleep." The clerk dropped into his chair again and elevated his feet to the radiator.
"Want me t' git a pillow for yuh?"
"No back talk!"—drowsily.
"Oh! boy, but I got one on you!"
"What?"
"This Boolzac guy didn't have no baggage, an'
