"Give a man breathing space, can't you?" returned Average Jones.
"This is hotter than Baja California."
"Why, I assumed that your quest of the quack's scion would have
trained you down fit for anything."
"Haven't even caught up with the clippings that Simpson floods me
with, since I came back," confessed the other. "What have you got
up your faultlessly creased sleeve? It's got to be something
different to rouse me from a well-earned lethargy."
"Because a man buncoes a loving father out of five thousand
dollars," Average Jones snorted gently, "is no reason why he should
unanimously elect himself a life member of the Sons of Idleness,"'
murmured Bertram.
He cast an eye around the uniquely decorated walls, upon which hung,
here, the shrieking prospectus of a mythical gold-mine; there a
small but venomous political placard, and on all sides examples of
the uncouth or unusual in paid print; exploitations of grotesque
quackeries; appeals, business-like, absurd, or even passionate, in
the form of "Wants;" threats thinly disguised as "Personals;"' dim
suggestions of crime, of fraud, of hope, of tragedy, of mania, all
decorated with the stars of "paid matter" or designated by the Adv.
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