“Thunder and lightning!” cried Dennis as he reached the exasperating announcement in italics at the bottom of the dickey back:
“Continued on Dickey No. 2.”
“What th’ div—now, what do you think of that? An’ it’s me crazy to hear what that meerschaum-colored divil was a-goin’ to say. ‘Dickey No. 2.’ Why, that’s the one I have to wear to-day, an’ to think the story’s on the back of it.”
Truly was Dennis harassed.
He had been in many a pickle before, but never in one quite so exasperating.
Tantalized, in the first place, by the uncertainty surrounding his prospective employment, he was now confronted by a predicament which threatened to jeopardize a vital adjunct to his personal appearance.
A native curiosity, to which this outrageous tale appealed so strenuously, prompted him to detach bosom No. 2 regardless.
An equally characteristic thrift warned him against such an inconsiderate procedure.
Finally his good judgment prevailed, and with desperate haste he adjusted the remaining bosoms of the dickey to his waistcoat, plunged into his coat, clapped his hat on his head and rushed from the room.