“I’m just going out to luncheon. How would you like to go along with me, and we can talk things over?”
“Go to lunch! With you, Judge? Gee!”
“Yes, come along. As Mr. Trowbridge’s trusted clerk, I feel an interest in your welfare, and I want to see what I can do for you. Yes, come on, and we’ll talk it over as we lunch.”
“Great jumpin’ cows! Say, Judge, I s’pose you’d ruther I’d talk nice an’ pretty, if I’m goin’ to eat wit’ a gentleman. Well, say, I’ll try, honust, I will.”
“Not only for this time, Terence, but don’t you think it would be a good idea, if you gave up that foolish slang for good and all?”
“You bet I do! An’ say, you don’ know how hard I’ve tried! Why, I practice at home, an’ I make Aunt Becky scowl at me every time I say a onnecess’ry woid. An’ I do sure hate to be scowled at! Yes, sir, I do! Well, I’m goin’ to keep on tryin’.”
When the strangely mated pair started out, Judge Hoyt led his guest to a restaurant of a good but plain type.
“I won’t take you to one of my clubs today, Terence,” said his host, “but as you’re ambitious, let me prophesy that some day you’ll grow up to be a man I’ll be proud to take to luncheon anywhere.”
“Say, Judge,” and Fibsy looked serious, “that’s the kinda talk that makes a feller want to rise in this world. I’m ambitious,—I am,—Aunt Becky says I’ve got more ambition ’n’ any one she ever see—”
“Saw, Terence.”