“Will you smoke, Mr. Desmond?” I asked, offering him a cigar.
“No, I thank you.”
“Oh, I had forgotten you did not approve of the habit. Excuse me.”
Mrs. Pinkerton explained to Mr. Desmond, apologetically, that I was an irresponsible victim of the nicotine poison. I laughed, but Mr. Desmond received the explanation solemnly, and expressed his abhorrence for “the weed.”
The old gentleman professed great admiration for baby, and said that he looked exactly like his mother; in fact, the resemblance was almost startling.
By the time we had got to Linwood, our passenger had talked himself into a state of good-humor, and we left him at the railroad station, bowing and smiling with true old-school aplomb.
Bessie thought the ride did Charlie, junior, good, and so it became a regular thing, on pleasant afternoons, to take him out for a little airing. Mrs. Pinkerton overcame her scruples, and usually accompanied us. A sample of the sweet converse held with my son and heir on the back seat will suffice:—
“Sodywazzaleetlecatchykums! ‘Esoodavaboobangy! Mamma’s cunnin’ kitten-baby!”
One day, just before noon, when I had been making a mental calculation as to how I should be able to cover the livery-stable bill, a fine equipage stopped in front of the bank, and through the window I saw the stately driver hand a note to our errand-boy. In a moment Tommy appeared in the room and handed me the billet, which ran thus:—
My dear Mr. Travers,—I trust you will not take it amiss if I send my coachman out your way once in a while to exercise the ponies. Since Clara’s taking-off, they have stood still too much, and knowing that you go to ride occasionally with your family, I take the liberty of putting them at your disposal for the present, with instructions to John, who is a careful and trustworthy driver, to place himself at your service whenever you are so disposed. The obligation will be entirely on my part, if you will kindly take a turn behind the ponies whenever you choose. My regards to your wife and Mrs. Pinkerton.