"What's that?"
"Alive and kickin'! All well! All over it the next minute! See you to-morrow! G'-by!"
And again slammed on the receiver.
Mrs. Cane had just finished a little dissertation on the elements of courtesy and its necessary place in the lexicon of youth, when Sube looked up absently and asked:
"Who's pooah deah Clar-r-rence?"
"I didn't understand, dear. What's the name?" she asked.
"He's dead, I guess. Nancy's aunt was bawlin' about him to-night."
"He means Clarence Harger," guessed Mr. Cane. "She still sheds tears every time his name is mentioned; and strange to relate, I don't believe her lachrymal glands ever yielded up one drop of moisture until she found that the old tight-wad had left her a quarter of a million that she never dreamed he possessed."
"Was Clarence a tight-wad?" asked Sube with interest. "Where'd he live, anyway? When'd he die?"
"He was a very nice man," Mrs. Cane hastened to explain. "He lived and died in Rochester. And you must be very courteous to Mrs. Hotchkiss-Harger, as she is one of your father's very best clients. Her husband was a splendid man—"