In a startled silence Neighbor rose, fold after fold, interminable and slow. He fumbled for matches, pipe and tobacco; thoughtfully, thoroughly, he constructed a smoke. Then he raised his eyes. Many a hard Ulysses-year had passed over him, this old Neighbor; but his eyes were clear and unstained yet. They now observed Mr. Bennett attentively. “Sorry,” said Neighbor Jones. “I haven’t got a thing fit to wear.” At the door he turned. “Now, I’ll tell you what you do,” he said kindly. He spread out his left hand and drew a diagram down the palm: “You go to hell and take the first turn to the left!” Chapter III Ducky Drake--Roger Olcott Drake, Second--dawdled over a four-o’clock breakfast. He was in bathrobe and slippers, his feet on a second chair; the morning paper was propped before him and the low western sun peeped through his windows. The room phone rang. “Hel-lo-o! Gentleman to see Mr. Drake--shall we show him up?”... “Use your own judgment; the last time I tried to show a man up he worked my face over.” Bring him up, the telephone meant. Mr. Drake desired particulars: “What is the gentleman’s silly name?”... “Jones. Cowpunch; six or seven feet up; incredibly sober.”... “Sure, Moike! Bring him along! Say, send some good smokes, will you?--and some swipes. What’s that? What do I mean, swipes? Beer, you idiot--beer!” A clear eye, bright and black; a clean, fresh-colored skin; a frank and pleasant face--that was Ducky. He met his visitor at the door. “Glad to see you, Mr. Neighbor--welcome to our well-known midst! Weather! Chair! How’s every little thing? You look chirpy enough. Shan’t I have breakfast sent up for you?” “No, thank you; I got up at noon. You can give me a little help though.” “Put it on the table, George. That’s all.” George, known in private life as Gregorio, departed, and Ducky turned to his guest. “Whaddy you mean--help?” he demanded, grinning sympathetically. “Did they put the kibosh on you good and proper after I quit last night?” He pushed the cigars over and began operations with a corkscrew. “Oh, no--nothing like that. I want some advice.” “Advice? This is the right shop.” Roger struck a Pecksniff pose, waved the corkscrew aloft, and declaimed grandly: “Put your eggs in one basket. Get on the wagon. Hitch your wagon to a star. Mind your step! When in doubt, play trumps. Be sure you’re ahead and then go right home.” “Not advice exactly--information.” “Oh!” said Ducky. “A straight line is the shortest distance between two points; the woman who hesitations is lost; a Cobb in the club is worth two in the bush; lead-pencil signatures are good in law; a receiver is as bad as a promoter; hospitality is the thief of time; absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.” Neighbor shoved a bottle of beer into his host’s hand. “Drink, pretty creature, drink! Let me explain: What I want is to ask some questions--about words, and so on. You’re a college Johnny, ain’t you?”