back and put the bee on me for a cold lunch. We was to eat it
in Mrs. Simmons's flat. All she furnished was the idea. Alex and
Simmons is sittin' in the dinin' room and they're so interested in each
other they don't even look up when we come in. The table is full of
drawin's and blue prints and scraps of paper all covered over with
figures. Simmons is pointin' out somethin' to Alex on a piece of
paper, and I'll lay the world four to one Alex ain't got the slightest
idea what the other guy's talkin' about, but he's listenin' like he's
hearin' the secret of makin' gold outa mud.

"I'll bet you have gone to work and bored Mister Hanley half to death!"
says his wife. "How often have I told you that strangers is not
interested in them fool ideas of yours?"

"Not at all!" says Alex. "I fail to recall when I spent such a
enjoyable night. Mister Simmons is a genius, if they ever was one, and
I predict a great future for his automatic cocktail shaker. Then, if
he gets his keyless lock workin' right, why--"

"Let's eat in the kitchen, it's cosier," interrupts Mrs. Simmons. "Do
you folks mind?"

They was no bloodshed over it, and we all went in. Simmons claims he
would like to change his collar, and invites me back to look over the
flat, a treat the wife has already had. Once we get in his boudoir, he
finds they is everything in the world in it with the exception of a
clean collar, and he calls Mrs. Simmons to the rescue.

"Here!" she says, handin' him the laundry. "Hurry up, so's we can eat.
He's always losin' somethin'!" she remarks.

I got a comical answer on the tip of my tongue, when Simmons drops his
collar button on the floor, and, the same as all the other collar
buttons in the world, they picked out the furtherest corners of the
room to roll into. The poor boob gets as red as a four-alarm fire and
goes crawlin' around the room tryin' to run them collar buttons down.

"It's too bad them buttons wasn't made of rubber," I says, thinkin' to
pass the thing off. "They would of bounced right back in your hand,
hey?"

He straightens up like he had stepped on a egg and runs his hands
through his hair.

"A rubber collar button!" he mutters. "A rubber collar button!
No--no--not _rubber_, but--"

"My Gawd!" cuts in Mrs. Simmons. "Will he _ever_ stop it? Sit down
and eat, folks, he's ravin' again! Here, Edgar, try some of this cold
ham. It set our friends back a dollar and it ought to be good!"

"I'm-