you were going to explain that George Wilson business to me, Gussie, old man.”
“Well, it’s this way—”
At this juncture dear old Gussie broke off short, rose from his seat, and sprang with indescribable vim at an extraordinarily stout chappie who had suddenly appeared. There was the deuce of a rush for him, but Gussie had got away to a good start, and the rest of the singers, dancers, jugglers, acrobats, and refined sketch teams seemed to recognize that he had won the trick, for they ebbed back into their places again, and Gussie and I went into the inner room.
Mr. Riesbitter lit a cigar, and looked at us solemnly over his zareba of chins.
“Now, let me tell ya something,” he said to Gussie. “You lizzun t’ me.”
Gussie registered respectful attention. Mr. Riesbitter mused for a moment and shelled the cuspidor with indirect fire over the edge of the desk.