Raish did not answer immediately. His first move was to cross to the door by which his visitor had entered, close and lock it. His next was to lower the window shade a trifle. Then he turned and smiled--nay, beamed upon that visitor. “Set down, set down, Perfessor,” he urged, with great cordiality. “Well, well, well! It's good to see you again, be hanged if it ain't now! How's things down to the bluffs? Joggin' along, joggin' along in the same old rut, the way the feller with the wheelbarrer went to market? Eh? Haw, haw, haw! Have a cigar, Perfessor?” Galusha declined the cigar. He would also have declined the invitation to sit, but Mr. Pulcifer would not hear of it. He all but forced his caller into a chair. “Set down,” he insisted. “Just as cheap settin' as standin' and consider'ble lighter on shoe leather, as the feller said. Haw, haw! Hey? Yes, indeed. Er--Have a cigar?” But Galusha was still resolute as far as the cigar was concerned. Raish lighted one himself and puffed briskly. To a keen observer he might have appeared a trifle nervous. Galusha was not a particularly keen observer and, moreover, he was nervous himself. If there had been no other reason, close proximity to a Raish Pulcifer cigar was, to a sensitive person, sufficient cause for nervousness. Mr. Pulcifer continued to talk and talk and talk, of the weather, of the profits of the summer season just past, of all sorts of trivialities. Mr. Bangs' nervousness increased. He fidgeted in his chair. “Really,” he stammered, “I--I fear I must be going. You will excuse me, I hope, but--ah--I must, really.” Pulcifer held up a protesting hand. It was that holding the cigar and he waved it slowly back and forth. One of Galusha's experiences had been to be a passenger aboard a tramp steamer loaded with hides when fire broke out on board. The hides had smoked tremendously and smelled even more so. As the dealer in real estate slowly waved his cigar back and forth, Galusha suddenly remembered this experience. The mental picture was quite vivid. “Wait, Perfessor,” commanded Horatio. “Throttle her down. Put her into low just a minute. Say, Perfessor,” he lowered his voice and leaned forward in his chair: “Say, Perfessor,” he repeated, “do you want to make some money?” Galusha gazed at him uncomprehendingly. “Why--ah--Dear me!” he faltered. “I--that is--well, really, I fear I do not fully grasp your--ah--meaning, Mr. Pulcifer.” Raish seemed to find this amusing. He laughed aloud. “No reason why you should yet awhile, Perfessor,” he declared. “I'll try to get it across to you in a minute, though. What I asked was if you wanted to make money. Do, don't you?” “Why--why, I don't know. Really, I--” “Go 'way, boy!” derisively. “Go 'way! Don't tell me you don't want money. Everybody wants it. You and me ain't John D.'s yet, by a consider'ble sight. Hey? Haw, haw! Anyhow _I_ ain't, and I'll say this for you, Perfessor, if you are, you don't look it. Haw, haw!”