Run over annyhow; it’s a dull place without you. The mother misses you bad.
Come Saturday if you can; I’ve got a business proposition I want to make.
Tell me how you’re getting on, annyway.
“Oh, ho!” cried Dennis. His providence was wide awake now, had made its toilet, and was ready for business.
For a long while Dennis sat with the letter in his hand, gazing, with unseeing eyes, upon its eccentric chirography.
His exultation had not fully materialized.
To grope in the valley of despair one moment and skip along the summit of beatitude the next was a little too much for immediate comprehension.
Somewhat in the manner of the metaphysician, he was inclined to believe, since his misfortune was no longer a reality, that his prosperity might be equally immaterial, and in unaware corroboration he made a minute tear in the edge of the postal order to establish its tangibility.
In the evening, influenced perhaps by his comparative weal, Dennis decided that he would purchase a ticket to the Olympus, and climbing the rear approach to that elevation, found himself seated shortly with the gallery gods, viewing with uncritical contrasts the relative merits of the clown, the harlequin and the columbine.