What makes you so cock sartin?"
"'Cause he's a widower," he says. "Them's the softest kind."
"Well, you ought to know," I told him. "You're one yourself. But,
from what I've heard, soft things are scarce in Wall Street. Bet you
seventy-five cents to a quarter it don't work."
He wouldn't take me, having scruples against betting--except when he
had the answer in his pocket. But he went away cackling joyful, and that
night Van Wedderburn arrived.
Van was a substantial-looking old relic, built on the lines of the
Boston State House, broad in the beam and with a shiny dome on top. But
he could qualify for the nervous dyspepsy class all right, judging
by his language to the depot-wagon driver. When he got through making
remarks because one of his trunks had been forgot, that driver's
quotation, according to Peter T., had "dropped to thirty cents, with a
second assessment called." I jedged the meals at our table would be as
agreeable as a dog-fight.
However, 'twas up to me, and I towed him in and made him acquainted with
Mabel. She wa'n't enthusiastic--having heard some of the driver sermon,
I cal'late--until I mentioned his name. Then she gave a little gasp
like. When Van had gone up to his rooms, puffing like a donkey-engyne
and growling 'cause there wa'n't no elevators, she took me by the arm
and says she:
"WHAT did you say his name was, Mr. Wingate?"
"Van Wedderburn," says I.
Pages:
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213