Miss Merriam's winning loveliness, her sweet frankness and
impulsive heart took them by storm. They said a hundred times that Miss
Merriam reminded them so much of their lost daughter. The Brooklyn
matron, nee Ramsey, had the figure of Buddha and a face like the ideal
of an art photographer. Miss Merriam was a combination of curves,
smiles, rose leaves, pearls, satin and hair-tonic posters. Enough of the
fatuity of parents.
A month after the worthy couple became acquainted with Miss Merriam, she
stood before Hinkle one afternoon and resigned her cashiership.
"They're going to adopt me," she told the bereft restaurateur. "They're
funny old people, but regular dears. And the swell home they have got!
Say, Hinkle, there isn't any use of talking--I'm on the a la carte to
wear brown duds and goggles in a whiz wagon, or marry a duke at least.
Still, I somehow hate to break out of the old cage. I've been cashiering
so long I feel funny doing anything else. I'll miss joshing the fellows
awfully when they line up to pay for the buckwheats and. But I can't let
this chance slide. And they're awfully good, Hinkle; I know I'll have a
swell time. You owe me nine-sixty-two and a half for the week.
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