I admitted it sadly and he said he would do what he could. He began by writing letters, but Papa Philpot was evidently too old a bird to be caught by legal chaff. It was settle up, or marry and settle down, and that settled it. Finally, Damon told me that there was only one chance for me. He would go down to Doolittle's Mills and see the old man in person and try and argue him out of it. I was deeply grateful that he should make it such a personal matter, but he said it wasn't much, he needed a vacation anyway.
Well, he went about three weeks ago and I accompanied him to the railroad station in a great state of nervousness. Three days later I received a letter from him stating that, although he had not sounded the old man yet, he had some hopes. Two other letters reached me within the next week, but no definite result had been attained.
Then I heard no more and for the last fortnight I have dreamt of bridal wreaths that changed into halters and wedding-cake with iron bars embedded in the frosting. Yesterday I received this telegram:
"Niagara Falls, Sept 19.
I am on my wedding tour. Verbena sends kind regards.
George Damon."
I am much relieved, but my mind will not be at complete rest till I find out whether Damon is a modern martyr or just plain damn fool.
Your freed son,
Pierrepont.
P.S. I wonder if Damon—but there are some things in life before which even the most riotous imagination falters.