"Well, that's good," said Lohr. "Of course you know what you're up to: you're old enough, God knows!" He laughed ruefully. "My, but it will seem funny to me—down there with you gone! I expect you and I both been gettin' to be pretty much dead-wood in the place, the way the young fellows look at it, and the only one that'd miss either of us would be the other one! Have you told the ole man yet?"
"Well———" Adams spoke laboriously. "No. No, I haven't. I thought—well, that's what I wanted to see you about."
"What can I do?"
"I thought I'd write him a letter and get you to hand it to him for me."
"My soul!" his friend exclaimed. "Why on earth don't you just go down there and tell him?"
Adams became pitiably embarrassed. He stammered, coughed, stammered again, wrinkling his face so deeply he seemed about to weep; but finally he contrived to utter an apologetic laugh. "I ought to do that, of course; but in some way or other I just don't seem to be able to—to manage it."
"Why in the world not?" the mystified Lohr inquired.
