“No; Perkins is attending to that,” said Henderson, rather indifferently, like a man awakened out of a pleasant dream. “Don't seem to need much fixing. The public are fond of parallels.”
Hollowell laughed. “I guess that's so—till they get 'em.”
“Or don't get them,” Henderson added. And then both laughed.
“It looks as if it would go through this time. Bemis says the C. D.'s badly scared. They'll have to come down lively.”
“I shouldn't wonder. By-the-way, look in tomorrow. I've got something to show you.”
Henderson lit his cigar, and they both puffed in silence for some moments.
“By-the-way, did I ever show you this?” Hollowell took from his breast-pocket a handsome morocco case, and handed it to his companion. “I never travel without that. It's better than an accident policy.”
Henderson unfolded the case, and saw seven photographs—a showy-looking handsome woman in lace and jewels, and six children, handsome like their mother, the whole group with the photographic look of prosperity.
Henderson looked at it as if it had been a mirror of his own destiny, and expressed his admiration.
“Yes, it's hard to beat,” Hollowell confessed, with a soft look in his face. “It's not for sale. Seven figures wouldn't touch it.” He looked at it lovingly before he put it up, and then added: “Well, there's a figure for each, Rodney, and a big nest-egg for the old woman besides. There's nothing like it, old man. You'd better come in.” And he put his hand affectionately on Henderson's knee.