"I suppose then," said he, "I suppose then you'll not be marrying me
next week. But you _can_ whistle."
"No," said Celia, "I'll not be marrying you next week. My father would
never let me marry a grocer's clerk. But I'll marry you to-night, Tommy,
if you say so."
Old Jacob Spraggins came home at 9:30 P. M., in his motor car. The make
of it you will have to surmise sorrowfully; I am giving you unsubsidized
fiction; had it been a street car I could have told you its voltage
and the number of wheels it had. Jacob called for his daughter; he had
bought a ruby necklace for her, and wanted to hear her say what a kind,
thoughtful, dear old dad he was.
There was a brief search in the house for her, and then came Annette,
glowing with the pure flame of truth and loyalty well mixed with envy
and histrionics.
"Oh, sir," said she, wondering if she should kneel, "Miss Celia's just
this minute running away out of the side gate with a young man to be
married. I couldn't stop her, sir. They went in a cab."
"What young man?" roared old Jacob.
"A millionaire, if you please, sir--a rich nobleman in disguise. He
carries his money with him, and the red peppers and the onions was only
to blind us, sir.
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