Sixty-five?--must
have had your salary raised, Mr. Wilson . . . I seen you on Sixth
Avenue Tuesday afternoon, Mr. De Forest--swell?--oh, my!--who
is she? . . . What's the matter with it?--why, it ain't
money--what?--Columbian half?--well, this ain't South
America . . . Yes, I like the mixed best--Friday?--awfully
sorry, but I take my jiu-jitsu lesson on Friday--Thursday,
then . . . Thanks--that's sixteen times I've been told that this
morning--I guess I must be beautiful . . . Cut that out, please--who
do you think I am? . . . Why, Mr. Westbrook--do you really think
so?--the idea!--one--eighty and twenty's a dollar--thank you ever so
much, but I don't ever go automobile riding with gentlemen--your
aunt?--well, that's different--perhaps . . . Please don't get
fresh--your check was fifteen cents, I believe--kindly step aside and
let . . . Hello, Ben--coming around Thursday evening?--there's a
gentleman going to send around a box of chocolates, and . . . forty
and sixty is a dollar, and one is two . . ."
About the middle of one afternoon the dizzy goddess Vertigo--whose other
name is Fortune--suddenly smote an old, wealthy and eccentric banker
while he was walking past Hinkle's, on his way to a street car.
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