"If every man had a boss like mine," Muggs continued, "the world would be a better place. I had a boss in Paris once that was a terror. I almost strangled him one day."
"Why didn't you?" the servant asked.
Muggs dropped the flaming match—into the filled wastebasket.
"Oh, somethin' happened to stop me—somebody got his lamps on me, or somethin'. And I didn't happen to get a chance again. I had to do a dodge. The cops was after me."
"Cops?"
"Say, I've had real cops after me in my day!" Muggs boasted. "I cut out that line of life a few years ago, when I met Mr. Verbeck, but before that I was somethin' of a terror—especially in Paris."
"Paris? I've never had a chance to go there," said the servant.
"You want to go when you get a roll, some time. It's some town, boy—some town!"
Muggs puffed at the cigarette again, and then turned toward the couch. The servant gave a cry and sprang from his chair.
"You cursed fool!" he shrieked. "You dropped that match in them papers!"
Muggs whirled around, astonishment in his face. "Put it out—or the whole darned place will burn down!" he cried. "If it catches on them curtains and things"
He darted forward himself, snatched a small rug from the floor, and began beating at the flaming wastebasket. The servant was working on the other side of the table, trying to watch Muggs at the
