Chapter VIII. Big Print

In the Cosmic Club Mr. Algernon Spofford was a figure of distinction. Amidst the varied, curious, eccentric, brilliant, and even slightly unbalanced minds which made the organization unique, his was the only wholly stolid and stupid one. Club tradition declared that he had been admitted solely for the beneficent purpose of keeping the more egotistic members in a permanent and pleasing glow of superiority. He was very rich, but otherwise quite harmless. In an access of unappreciated cynicism, Average Jones had once suggested to him, as a device for his newly acquired coat-of-arms, "Rocks et Praeterea Nihil."

But the "praeterea nihil" was something less than fair to Mr. Spofford, with whom it was not strictly a case of "nothing further" besides his "rocks". Ambition, the vice of great souls, burned within Spofford's pigeon-breast. He longed to distinguish himself in the line of endeavor of his friend Jones and was prone to proffer suggestions, hints, and even advice, to the great tribulation of the recipient.

Hence it was with misgiving that the Ad-Visor opened the door of his sanctum to Mr. Spofford, on a harsh December noon. But the misgivings were supplanted by pleased surprise when the caller laid in his hand a clipping from a small country town paper, to this effect:

RANSOM--Lost lad from Harwick not drowned or harmed. Retained for ransom. Safe and sound to parents for $50,000. Write, Mortimer Morley, General Delivery, N. Y. Post-Office.

"Thought that'd catch you," chuckled Mr. Spofford, in great self-congratulation. "'Jones'll see into this,' I says to myself. 'If he don't, I'll explain.' Somethin' to that, ay?"

Average Jones looked from the advertisement to the vacuous smile of Mr. Algernon Spofford. "Oh, you'll explain, will you?" he said softly. "Well, the thing I'd like to have explained is--come over here to the window a minute, will you, Algy?"

Mr. Spofford came, and gazed down upon a dispiriting area of rain-swept street and bedraggled wayfarers.

"See that ten-story office building across the way?" pursued Average Jones. "What would you do if, coming in here at midnight, you were to see twenty-odd rats ooze out of that building and disperse about their business?"

"I--I'd quit," said the startled promptly.

"That's the obvious solution," retorted "but my question wasn't intended to elicit a brand of music-hall humor."

Spofford contemplated the building uneasily. "I don't know what you're up to, Average," he complained. "Is it a catch?"

"No; it's a test case. What would you do?"

"I'd think it was Billy-be-dashed queer," answered Spofford with profound conviction.

"You're getting on," said Jones tartly. "And