realize that Colonel Quester would have punched me in the eye if I hadn't impressed him with my personality? He's an outrageous person."
"You did promise those exclusive models to his wife though."
"We get a better price elsewhere," Walker said, and pondered. "But Model Forty-Three will be ready for him when he calls this afternoon. A dangerous man, the colonel. Where was I? Oh, yes. "You're a fool, Vanderhof."
Vanderhof nodded and looked like a fool. Walker groaned in exasperation. "Haven't you any personality at all? No, you haven't. You're a—a—a chameleon, that's what. I've noticed that before. When you're talking to a ditch-digger, you act like one yourself. When you're talking to a banker, you turn into a banker. You're a mirror, that's what!"
It was unfortunate that Vanderhof did not leave at that moment. After his interview with the excitable Colonel Quester, he was mere protoplasm, and somewhat too receptive to suggestion. It was, of course, true, that Vanderhof had little character of his own. He had lost it, after years of associating with the virulent Walker. He was a complete yes-man, and needed only a catalyst to complete a certain chemical reaction that was already taking place.
"You're a chameleon," Walker said, with emphasis, and his eyes bored into Vanderhof's.
It was at that precise moment that Mr. Tim Vanderhof turned into a chameleon.
Not physically, of course. The metamorphosis was far more subtle. Adept for years at assuming the traits of others, Vanderhof was rather shockingly receptive. Though all he did was to sit down in a chair opposite his boss.
Walker stared, frowned, and hesitated.
Vanderhof stared, frowned, and didn't say anything.
Walker lifted a large hand and pointed accusingly.
Vanderhof lifted a smaller hand and also pointed accusingly.
Walker flushed. So did Vanderhof.
The president of The Svelte Shop rose like a behemoth from his chair and growled, "Are you mocking me?"
Then he stopped, amazed, because Vanderhof had risen and said exactly the same thing.
"You—you—you—" Walker's face was purple. Vanderhof guessed what was coming. With a mighty effort he asserted what little remained of his will-power.
"D-don't go on!" he pleaded frantically. "P-please—"
"You chameleon!" S. Horton Walker thundered.
"You chameleon!" Vanderhof thundered.
Such bare-faced, impudent mockery was unendurable. Walker quivered in every muscle. "You're fired!" he said. "What's that? What did you say? What do you mean, I'm fired? Stop imitating me, you stupid clown. Don't call me a stupid clown! Nrrgh!"
"—nrrgh!" Vanderhof finished, not quite realizing what was happening to him. Walker sat down weakly. He was shaken a little, but his natural malignancy was still undimmed. A natural snake, S. Horton Walker.
"I—"
"I—" said Vanderhof.
Walker bellowed, "Shut up!" And, so strong was his will, for the moment Vanderhof remained perfectly quiet.
"Are you going to get out?" he asked at length, in a low, deadly voice. "Damn it, stop mocking me! I'll have you thrown out! What? Have me thrown out of my own office?"
Goaded to insensate fury by the fact that Vanderhof was repeating perfectly everything he said and did—and, curiously
