"THERE'S GOT TO BE A LINE DRAWED SOMEWHERES" By seven o'clock in the morning,--since that was his ultimatum,--Luck was standing in his bare feet and pajamas, acrimoniously arguing with Martinson over the telephone.

Usually he was up at six, but he was a stubborn young man, and the day promised much rainfall, anyway.

He would have preferred sunshine; the stand he meant to take would have had more weight in working weather.

But since he could not prevent the morning from being a rainy one, he permitted more determination to slip into his tones.
Martinson had spent an unpleasant evening with Bently Brown, or so he declared.

He had called up several stockholders of the Acme, and had talked the matter over with them, and-- "Well, cut the preamble, Mart," snapped Luck, trying to warm one foot by rubbing it with the other one.