I sat down; partly because, when not aroused, I am of a submissive temperament; and partly because he had thrown the table and grips across the door. "Don't mention it," said I. "Thank you." "Permit me, Sir," said he, "to offer you a drink." "I hope you will excuse me," I replied, now slightly roused, for I abhor alcohol and its use. "I never drink!" "It is creditable to any man, Sir," said he, "to carry around with him a correct estimate of his weaknesses." This really aroused in me that indignation which sometimes renders me almost terrible; but his fixed and glittering gaze seemed to hold me back from making the protest which rose to my lips. "Permit me, Sir," said he, "to offer you a cigar." It was a strong-looking weed; but although I am not a smoker, I took and lighted it. He resumed his attention to his bottle and paper. "Will you be so kind," said he, breaking silence, "as to read that item as it appears to you?" "'Federal Improvement Company,'" I read. "'Organized under the laws of New Jersey, on January 4th, with a capital of $1,000,000. Charter powers very broad, taking in almost every field of business. The incorporators are understood to be New York men.'" "'Imp,'" said he, "isn't it? not 'Improvement.'" "I take it, sir," said I, "that the omission of the period is a printer's error, and that i-m-p means Improvement.'" He leaned forward, grasped my wrist and peered like a hypnotist into my face. "Just as badly mistaken," said he, "as if you had lost--as could be! It means 'Imp' just as it says 'Imp.' Have another drink!" This time I really did not feel free to refuse him. He seemed greatly pleased at my tasting. "Sit still," said he, "and I'll tell you the condemdest story you ever heard. That corporation means that we are now entering a governmental and sociological area of low pressure that will make the French Revolution look like a cipher with the rim rubbed out. In the end you'll be apt to have clearer views as to whether or not 'i-m-p' spells improvement'!" This he seemed to consider a very clever play upon words, and he sat for some time, laughing in the manner adopted by the stage villain in his moments of solitude. His Mephistophelean behavior, or something, made me giddy. His manner was quite calm, however, and after a while we lapsed back into the commonplace. "Ever read a story," said he, "named _The Bottle Imp_?" "Stevenson's _Bottle Imp_?" I exclaimed, glad to find a topic of common interest, and feeling that it could not be a dangerous thing to be shut into the same smoking compartment with any man who loved such things, no matter how Captain-Kiddish he might appear. "Why, yes, I have often read it. I am a teacher of literature and an admirer of Stevenson. He possesses--" "Who? Adlai?" he said. "Did he ever have it?" "I mean Robert Louis," said I. "He wrote it, you know."