Shorthouse could have laughed outright but for the expression of the
other's face.
"I should not think there was much air of any sort in a vacuum," he said
quietly.
"That's exactly what _I_ feel," continued Garvey with ever growing
excitement. "That's the horrid part of it. How the devil does he live
there? You see--"
"Have you ever followed him there?" interrupted the secretary. The
other leaned back in his chair and drew a deep sigh.
"Never! It's impossible. You see I can't follow him. There's not room
for two. A vacuum only holds one comfortably. Marx knows that. He's out
of my reach altogether once he's fairly inside. He knows the best side
of a bargain. He's a regular Jew."
"That is a drawback to a servant, of course--" Shorthouse spoke slowly,
with his eyes on his plate.
"A drawback," interrupted the other with an ugly chuckle, "I call it a
draw-in, that's what I call it."
"A draw-in does seem a more accurate term," assented Shorthouse. "But,"
he went on, "I thought that nature abhorred a vacuum. She used to, when
I was at school--though perhaps--it's so long ago--"
He hesitated and looked up.
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