"So Mr. Steele gave me to understand," says Cuyler. "In my case, however, the reparation comes a little late. The fact is, Gentlemen, that I--well, why quibble? I may be good for another ten or a dozen years. But I shall go on just as I've been going on, following my daily routine in the department, at my club, at my bachelor quarters. You get into it, you know,--bath, breakfast, desk, dinner, a rubber or two of bridge, and bed. A trifle monotonous, but a comfortable, undisturbed, assured existence. I may have had ambitions once,--yes, I'm quite sure,--but no longer. After my--er--my elimination, I got this place in the department. There I've stuck for fifteen years. I've settled into official routine; I'm fixed there hard and fast. It's so with many of us. Most of us recognize the hopelessness of ever pulling out. At least I do, fully. As I sometimes confess, I am merely one of the unburied dead. And there you are!" Kind of took me off my guard, that did. And me about to knock him so hard! I glances over at J. Bayard sort of foolish, and he stares back vacant and helpless. Somehow we'd never been up against a proposition like this, and it had us fannin' the air. "Unburied dead, eh?" says I. "Oh come, Mr. De Kay, ain't that drawin' it a little strong? Why, you ought to have lots of punch left in you yet. All you got to do is buck up." "The optimism of youth!" says he. "I suppose I ought to feel grateful, Professor McCabe, for your well intentioned advice. And I can almost say that I wish I might----" He don't get a chance to finish; for this is right where Hunk Burley, that I'd almost forgot was in the room, suddenly kicks into the debate. I'd felt one or two tugs at my coat; but this last one was so vigorous it nearly whirls me around. And as I turns I finds him blinkin' and splutterin' excited, like he'd swallowed his cigar. "Eh?" says I. "What's troublin' you, Hunk?" "He--he's the guy," says Hunk, "the very guy!" "Wha-a-at?" says I, followin' the look in them wide-set pop eyes of his. "Who is?" "Him," says he, pointin' to Cuyler. "He's a reg'lar guy, he is; the spit and image of what I been wantin' to connect with these last six months. Say, Shorty, put me next." "Gwan!" says I. "You ain't supposed to exist. Paint your funnels black and run the blockade." At which Cuyler, who has been starin' curious through his glasses, steps forward. "What is it?" says he. "Do I understand that the gentleman wishes to speak to me?" "You're hootin'," says Hunk. "Only I ain't no gent. I'm just Hunk Burley, managin' producer. Tent shows is my line, ring or stage, and I'm carryin' a proposition up my cuff that means a lot of easy money to whoever grabs it first. Do you get me?" "Ah, stow it, Hunk!" says I. "Mr. De Kay ain't one of your crowd. Can't you see he's----"