“I am always delighted to patronise native industries,” said Norton the First. “San Francisco is public-spirited in what concerns its Emperor; and indeed, sir, of all my domains, it is my favourite city.”
“Come,” said I, when he was gone, “I prefer that customer to the lot.”
“It's really rather a distinction,” Jim admitted. “I think it must have been the umbrella racket that attracted him.”
We were distinguished under the rose by the notice of other and greater men. There were days when Jim wore an air of unusual capacity and resolve, spoke with more brevity like one pressed for time, and took often on his tongue such phrases as “Longhurst told me so this morning,” or “I had it straight from Longhurst himself.” It was no wonder, I used to think, that Pinkerton was called to council with such Titans; for the creature's quickness and resource were beyond praise. In the early days when he consulted me without reserve, pacing the room, projecting, ciphering, extending hypothetical interests, trebling imaginary capital, his “engine” (to renew an excellent old word) labouring full steam ahead, I could never decide whether my sense of respect or entertainment were the stronger. But these good hours were destined to curtailment.
“Yes, it's smart enough,” I once observed. “But, Pinkerton, do you think it's honest?”
“You don't think it's honest!” he wailed. “O dear me, that ever I should have heard such an expression on your lips!”
At sight of his distress, I plagiarised unblushingly from Myner. “You seem to think honesty as simple as Blind Man's Buff,” said I. “It's a more delicate affair than that: delicate as any art.”
“Oh well, at that rate!” he exclaimed, with complete relief; “that's casuistry.”
