sock under the loose brick in the corner of the kitchen hearth. There’s an old saying you may have heard—‘fussily decency averni’—which means it’s an easy slide from the street faker’s dry goods box to a desk in Wall Street. We’ve took that slide, but we didn’t know exactly what was at the bottom of it. Now, you ought to be wise, but you ain’t. You’ve got New York wiseness, which means that you judge a man by the outside of his clothes. That ain’t right. You ought to look at the lining and seams and the button-holes. While we are waiting for the patrol wagon you might get out your little stub pencil and take notes for another funny piece in the paper.”
And then Buck turns to me and says: “I don’t care what Atterbury thinks. He only put in brains, and if he gets his capital out he’s lucky. But what do you say, Pick?”
“Me?” says I. “You ought to know me, Buck. I didn’t know who was buying the stock.”
“All right,” says Buck. And then he goes through the inside door into the main office and looks at the gang trying to squeeze through the railing. Atterbury and his hat was gone. And Buck makes ’em a short speech.
“All you lambs get in line. You’re going to get your wool back. Don’t shove so. Get in a line—a
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