The Cornfield Aristocrat

It was an innocent little note from Jeff Saxton; a polite, humble little
note; it said that Jeff had a card to the Astoria Club, and wouldn't
Milt please have lunch with him? But Milt dropped it on the table, and
he walked round it as though it were a dictagraph which he'd discovered
in the table drawer after happy, happy, hidden hours at counterfeiting.

It seemed more dangerous to refuse than to go. He browned the celebrated
new shoes; he pressed the distinguished new trousers, with a light and
quite unsatisfactory flatiron; he re-re-retied his best spotted blue
bow--it persisted in having the top flaps too short, but the retying
gave him spiritual strength--and he modestly clumped into the aloof
brick portal of the Astoria Club on time.

He had never been in a club before.

He looked at the red tiled floor of the entrance hall; he stared through
the hall into an immense lounge with the largest and softest chairs in
the world, with oil portraits of distinguished old bucks, and ninety per
cent. of the wealth and power of Seattle pulling its several mustaches,
reading the P.I., and ignoring the lone intruder out in the hall.

A small Zulu in blue tights and brass buttons glared at Milt; and a
large, soft, suave, insulting young man demanded, "Yes, sir?"

"Mr. G-g-geoffrey Saxton?" ventured Milt.

"Not in, sir." The "sir" sounded like "And you know it." The flaming
guardian retired behind a narrow section of a bookkeeper's desk and
ignored him.