"Possibly," suggests Tidman, smilin' sarcastic, "our young friend is an
admirer of Epictetus."
"I ain't seen many of the big games this year," says I. "What league
is he in?"
"Epictetus," says Waldo, breakin' it to me as gentle as he can, "was a
Greek philosopher. We are reading his 'Discourses.'"
"Oh!" says I. "Not so close, was I? Now, what was his line of
dope--something like the Dooley stuff?"
Waldo and Tidman swaps grins, sort of sly and sheepish, like they
wasn't used to indulgin' in such frivolity. They seemed to enjoy it,
though, and the first thing I know I'm bein' put through a sort of
highbrow third degree, the object being to show up what an empty loft I
wear my pink thatch on.
Course, they didn't have to dig very deep into back-number hist'ry or
B. C. best sellers to prove their case, and when an extra chuckle was
needed I admit I played up my part for all it was worth. Honest, they
develops into a pair of reg'lar cut-ups, and seems to be havin' the
time of their lives discoverin' that I thought Cleopatra must be one of
the Russian ballet and Francis Bacon a new movie star.
"And yet," says Waldo, inspectin' me curious, "your employers intrust
you with a ten thousand dollar check."
"They've never got onto me, the way you have," says I.
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