"My dear Miss Blye!"--wouldn't that put
pink icing and a little red sugar bird on your bridal cake? How long do
you expect to hold an audience in a court-room with that kind of stuff?
You want to get down to business, and call me "Tweedlums Babe" and
"Honeysuckle," and sign yourself "Mama's Own Big Bad Puggy Wuggy Boy" if
you want any limelight to concentrate upon your sparse gray hairs. Get
sappy.'
"After that Vaucross dipped his pen in the indelible tabasco. His
notes read like something or other in the original. I could see a jury
sitting up, and women tearing one another's hats to hear 'em read. And I
could see piling up for Mr. Vaucross as much notoriousness as Archbishop
Cranmer or the Brooklyn Bridge or cheese-on-salad ever enjoyed. He
seemed mighty pleased at the prospects.
"They agreed on a night; and I stood on Fifth Avenue outside a solemn
restaurant and watched 'em. A process-server walked in and handed
Vaucross the papers at his table. Everybody looked at 'em; and he
looked as proud as Cicero. I went back to my room and lit a five-cent
cigar, for I knew the $10,000 was as good as ours.
"About two hours later somebody knocked at my door. There stood Vaucross
and Miss Artemisia, and she was clinging--yes, sir, clinging--to his
arm.
Pages:
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110