"But," said the clerk, "you got to get a permit to fish in that
lake. Have you got a pull with the Water Company? Are you a
stockholder?"
Condy's face fell, and Blix gave a little gasp of dismay. They
looked at each other. Here was a check, indeed.
"Well," said the sublime being in shirt sleeves from behind the
counter, "see what you can do; and if you can't make it, come back
here an' lemmeno, and we'll fix you up in some other place. But
Lake San Andreas has been bang-up this last week--been some great
kills there; hope to the deuce you can make it."
Everything now hinged upon this permit. It was not until their
expedition had been in doubt that Condy and Blix realized how
alluring had been its prospects.
"Oh, I guess you can get a permit," said the clerk soothingly.
"An' if you make any good kills, lemmeno and I'll put it in the
paper. I'm the editor of the 'Sport-with-Gun-and-Rod' column in
'The Press,'" he added with a flush of pride.
Toward the middle of the afternoon Blix, who was waiting at home,
in great suspense, for that very purpose, received another
telegram from Condy:
"Tension of situation relieved. Unconditional permission
obtained. Don't forget the shrimps."
It had been understood that Condy was to come to the flat on
Sunday afternoon to talk over final arrangements with Blix. But
as it was, Saturday evening saw him again at the Bessemers.
He had been down at his club in the library, writing the last
paragraphs of his diver's story, when, just as he finished,
Sargeant discovered him.
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