“Your father came home unexpectedly early this morning,” Mr. Whiteley told Mark “and he’s all upset about losing his invention and you, too.”
“What made him come home so quick?” Mark asked.
“Lost his money,” says Mr. Whiteley, grinning a little. “Telegraphed me last night so as not to frighten your mother. Here’s his telegram.”
The telegram said:
Money lost. Can’t pay hotel bill. Can’t pay anything. What shall I do?
Now wasn’t that just like Mr. Tidd? Well, Mr. Whiteley telegraphed him back some money, and he took the first train home. Said he wasn’t going to take any more chances in the city.
“Did he get his p-p-patent?” Mark asked.
“He didn’t get anything but flabbergasted,” says Mr. Whiteley. “And when he got here and found what had happened he was more flabbergasted than ever.”
Uncle Ike slapped his knee. “That reminds me,” says he. “I took a perty slick-lookin’ feller up to see him just before that peddler give me your knife. He was a feller with a shiny leather bag and a plug hat and glasses that pinched onto his nose and whiskers. He looked like he was so loaded down with ten-dollar gold pieces he couldn’t walk. He was one of them pompous fellers. Strutted around like a turkey in a yard full of banty chickens.”
Mark looked up sharp. “What was his name?” he asked.