Abruptly his impressive manner dropped
from him. He leaned toward them with a captivating flash of white teeth.
"_You just leave that to me_," he murmured, and glided away into the
crowd.
Baker laughed and drew Bob's arm within his own.
"Out of twenty of the faithful there's sure to be one or two with life
savings stowed away in a sock, and Sunny's the boy to make them produce
the sock."
"What's his cult, anyway?" asked Bob. "I mean, what do they pretend to
believe? I couldn't make out."
"A nigger's idea of Buddhism," replied Baker briefly. "But you can get
any brand of psychic damfoolishness you think you need in your business.
They do it all, here, from going barefoot, eating nuts, swilling olive
oil, rolling down hill, adoring the Limitless Whichness, and all the
works. It is now," he concluded, looking at his watch, "about ten
o'clock. We will finish the evening by dropping in on the Fuzzies."
Together they boarded a street car, which shortly deposited them at an
uptown corner. Large houses and spacious grounds indicated a district of
some wealth. To one of these houses, brilliantly lighted, Baker directed
his steps.
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