But, being that I AM old--old enough to be your dad, though
that's my only recommend for the job--I'm going to preach a little
sermon. My text is found in the Old Home Hotel, Wellmouth, first house
on the left. It's Miss Seabury," says I.
He was surprised, I guess, but he never turned a hair. "Indeed?" he
says. "She is the--the housekeeper, isn't she?"
"She was," says I, "but she leaves to-morrer morning."
THAT hit him between wind and water.
"No?" he sings out, setting up straight and staring at me. "Not really?"
"You bet," I says. "Now down in this part of the chart we've come to
think more of that young lady than a cat does of the only kitten left
out of the bag in the water bucket. Let me tell you about her."
So I went ahead, telling him how Mabel had come to us, why she come, how
well she was liked, how much she liked us, and a whole lot more. I guess
he knew the most of it, but he was too polite not to act interested.
"And now, all at once," says I, "she gives up being happy and well and
contented, and won't eat, and cries, and says she's going to leave.
There's a reason, as the advertisement folks say, and I'm going to make
a guess at it. I believe it calls itself Jones."
His under jaw pushed out a little and his eyebrows drew together. But
all he said was, "Well?"
"Yes," I says. "And now, Mr. Jones, I'm old, as I said afore, and nosey
maybe, but I like that girl.
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