He was a burly gentleman,
whose ruff-shortened thick neck and haughty fixedness of stare from the
background of his portrait were such as seemed to eliminate him from the
scheme of things, the clanging of electric cars, and the prevailing
roar of the L. Confronted by his gaze, electric light advertisements of
whiskies, cigars, and corsets seemed impossible.
"He's all right," continued G. Selden. "I'm ready to separate myself
from one fifty any time I see a new book of his. He's got the goods with
him."
The richness of colloquialism moved the vicar of Mount Dunstan to deep
enjoyment.
"Would you mind--I trust you won't," he apologised courteously, "telling
me exactly the significance of those two last sentences. In think I see
their meaning, but----"
G. Selden looked good-naturedly apologetic himself.
"Well, it's slang--you see," he explained. "I guess I can't help it.
You--" flushing a trifle, but without any touch of resentment in the
boyish colour, "you know what sort of a chap I am. I'm not passing
myself off as anything but an ordinary business hustler, am I--just
under salesman to a typewriter concern? I shouldn't like to think I'd
got in here on any bluff. I guess I sling in slang every half dozen
words----.
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