Jackson waited an hour before Skinner appeared. Skinner had reckoned that about that time the curmudgeon would be lounging around downstairs, waiting to meet him quite accidentally, so he permitted himself a cigar and a stroll in the office, which stroll was made to appear casual. The curmudgeon had disposed himself in a huge armchair, which commanded a view of the elevator, and no sooner did he see Skinner emerge than he busied himself assiduously staring at, but not perceiving, the pages of the Sunday magazine section. With equal assiduity, Skinner, who as soon as he had left the elevator had observed Jackson, avoided seeing him, although he clearly perceived him. Thus they played at cross-purposes for a while, these two overgrown boys. "Hello," said Jackson, looking up from his paper as Skinner strolled past for the fourth time. "You here yet?" "I hate to tear myself away," said Skinner. "Have a cigar?" Jackson took the weed and indicated a chair next his own. "By Jove," said Skinner, seating himself and crossing his legs comfortably, "I like this town. Wonderful climate, fine people--and"--he turned to Jackson--"devilish good grub." "Have you had a trout dinner yet?" said Jackson. "Yes. Out at the Lake the other day." "I mean a _real_ one--cooked by a _real_ cook--all the trimmings." "No, I can't say that I have." Jackson paused, drummed on the arm of his chair, and swallowed hard. "I've got the best cook in the Middle West," he observed. "That's going some." "You think you've eaten, don't you? Well, you haven't. You ought to try _my_ cook." "That would be fine," said Skinner. Skinner knew exactly what Jackson would say next. It was wonderful, he thought, almost uncanny, how the curmudgeon was doing just what he had schemed out that he would do--willed him to do. He felt like a magician operating the wires for some manikin to dance at the other end or a hypnotist directing a subject. Things were going swimmingly for Jackson, too. He felt that he had executed his little scheme very well, without any danger of being found out or even suspected, yet he had never known things to fall in line as they were doing now. Still, he flattered himself it was good management. For Jackson was not a believer in luck. "How long are you going to stay here?" he asked abruptly. "Tuesday morning." "You and the Missus had better come out and try that cook of mine before you go." Jackson affected indifference, but his heart was beating high, higher than it had beaten for years, for he was a man that had always had his own way, and was not given to argument or diplomatic finessing. Having shot his bolt, Jackson waited. Skinner turned in his chair. "That's mighty good of you, old chap," he said cordially. "You're just like these other hospitable Westerners. You've bragged about your cook and you want to show me that you can make good. But I'll let you off--I'll take your word for it this time."