XVII
A Practical Man
Bruce’s thoughts were a jumble of dynamos and motors, direct and alternating currents, volts and amperes, when James J. Jennings’ papier-mache suitcase hit him in the shins in the lobby of a hotel which was headquarters for mining men in the somnolent city on the Pacific coast.
Jennings promptly dropped the suitcase and thrust out a hand which still had ground into the knuckles oil and smudge acquired while helping put up a power-plant in Alaska.
“Where did you come from—what are you doing here?” Bruce had seen him last in Alberta.
“Been up in the North Country, but”—James lifted a remarkable upper lip in a shy grin of ecstasy—“I aims to git married and stay in the States.”
“Shoo—you don’t say so!” Bruce exclaimed, properly surprised and congratulatory.
“Yep,” he beamed, then dropped, as he added mournfully, “So fur I’ve had awful bad luck with my wives; they allus die or quit me.”
Bruce ventured the hope that his luck might change with this, his last—and as Jennings explained—fifth venture.
“I kinda think it will,” the prospective bridegroom declared hopefully. “Bertha looks—er—lasty. But what about you?—I never knew you’d even saw a city.”