"The time may come
when it might be of use to you."
"Thanks!" said the young man, pocketing it carelessly. "My name is
Simmons."
* * * * * *
Shame to him who would hint that the reader's interest shall altogether
pursue the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg. I am indeed astray
if my hand fail in keeping the way where my peruser's heart would
follow. Then let us, on the morrow, peep quickly in at the door of
Hildebrant, harness maker.
Hildebrant's 200 pounds reposed on a bench, silver-buckling a raw
leather martingale.
Bill Watson came in first.
"Vell," said Hildebrant, shaking all over with the vile conceit of the
joke-maker, "haf you guessed him? 'Vat kind of a hen lays der longest?'"
"Er--why, I think so," said Bill, rubbing a servile chin. "I think so,
Mr. Hildebrant--the one that lives the longest-- Is that right?"
"Nein!" said Hildebrant, shaking his head violently. "You haf not
guessed der answer."
Bill passed on and donned a bed-tick apron and bachelorhood.
In came the young man of the Arabian Night's fiasco--pale, melancholy,
hopeless.
"Vell," said Hildebrant, "haf you guessed him? 'Vat kind of a hen lays
der longest?'"
Simmons regarded him with dull savagery in his eye.
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