Let the barred door clang shut!
"Office!" he said to Paul. There was no doubt in Paul's mind as to the
quality of his patron. He had at once recognized the Greatest Pitcher.
He ceased to speculate as to whether this assured young man owned the
high office-building. That was now of minor consequence.
On the way downtown he tried to remember what day it was. He thought it
was Friday, but again it seemed to be Monday. He stopped the car and
bought an afternoon paper to find out.
At the entrance to the big office-building he debated a moment.
"Wait!" he directed Paul.
He was uncertain how long he might be permitted to remain in that
building. If he must go to jail, he would ride. He wondered if Paul knew
the address of the best jail. He could have things sent in to
him--magazines and fruit.
Inside the entrance he paused before the cigar-stand. He must think
carefully what he would say to those men of round millions. He must keep
up his front. His glance roamed to the beautifully illustrated boxes of
cigars. A good idea!
"Gimme one those," he said to the clerk, indicating a box that flaunted
the polychrome portrait of a distinguished-looking Spaniard. He was
surprised at the price, but he bit the tip off violently and began to
mouth it.
"I'm no penny-pincher," he muttered, thinking of the cigar's cost. He
tilted the cigar to a fearless angle and slanted his hat over his left
eye.
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