“Yes, sir.” Benny spoke soberly, and with evident sympathy. He spoke again, after a moment, but Mr. Smith did not seem to hear at once. Mr. Smith was, indeed, not a little abstracted all the way to Benny’s home, though his good-night was very cheerful at parting. Benny would have been surprised, indeed, had he known that Mr. Smith was thinking, not about his foolishly extravagant agreement for board, but about a pair of starry eyes with wistful lights in them, and a blue dress, plainly made.
In the hotel that night, Mr. John Smith wrote the following letter to Edward D. Norton, Esq., Chicago:
My Dear Ned,—Well, I’m here. I’ve been here exactly six hours, and already I’m in possession of not a little Blaisdell data for my—er—book. I’ve seen Mr. and Mrs. James, their daughter, Bessie, and their son, Benny. Benny, by the way, is a gushing geyser of current Blaisdell data which, I foresee, I shall find interesting, but embarrassing, perhaps, at times. I’ve also seen Miss Flora, and Mrs. Jane Blaisdell and her daughter, Mellicent.
There’s a “Poor Maggie” whom I haven’t seen. But she isn’t a Blaisdell. She’s a Duff, daughter of the man who married Rufus Blaisdell’s widow, some thirty years or more ago. As I said, I haven’t seen her yet, but she, too, according to Mrs. Frank Blaisdell, must be a gushing geyser of Blaisdell data, so I probably soon shall see her. Why she’s “poor” I don’t know.
As for the Blaisdell data already in my possession—I’ve no comment to make. Really, Ned, to tell the truth, I’m not sure I’m going to relish this job, after all. In spite of a perfectly clear conscience, and the virtuous realization that I’m here to bring nothing worse than a hundred thousand dollars apiece with the possible addition of a few millions on their devoted heads—in spite of all this, I yet have an uncomfortable feeling that I’m a small boy listening at the keyhole.
However, I’m committed to the thing now, so I’ll stuff it out, I suppose,—though I’m not sure, after all, that I wouldn’t chuck the whole thing if it wasn’t that I wanted to see how Mellicent will enjoy her pink dresses. How many pink dresses will a hundred thousand dollars buy, anyway,—I mean pretty pink dresses, all fixed up with frills and furbelows?
As ever yours,
Stan—er—John Smith.
CHAPTER IV
IN SEARCH OF SOME DATES
Very promptly the next morning Mr. John Smith and his two trunks appeared at the door of his new boarding-place. Mrs. Jane Blaisdell welcomed him cordially. She wore a high-necked, long-sleeved gingham apron this time, which she neither removed nor apologized for—unless her cheerful “You see, mornings you’ll find me in working trim, Mr. Smith,” might be taken as an apology.
Mellicent, her slender young self enveloped in a similar apron, was dusting his room as he entered it. She nodded absently, with a casual “Good-morning, Mr. Smith,” as she continued at her work. Even the placing of the two big trunks, which the shuffling men brought in, won from her only a listless glance or two. Then, without speaking again, she left the room, as her mother entered it.