“I’ve pulverized many a dollar in my day,” says a gloomy and familiar voice. While the deck chuckled with sympathy. Hildegarde whispered, “That’s my Blumpitty.”
“Well, sir,” the other went on unmoved, “they passed that dollar in gold dust that I’m tellin’ y’ ’bout, they passed it through a sixty-mesh sieve, and they mixed it good and thorough with a ton—a ton, sir, of gravel and sand. And they run that through Swain’s Improved Gold Amalgamator, and what do you think they got?”
“Guess,” says Mr. Blumpitty, “they got to know that any feller can pulverize a dollar—”
“Haw, haw.”
“—but it’s the daisy that can pick one up.”
“Well, sir, Swain’s Improved Amalgamator’s jest that kind of a daisy. It picked up jest exactly ninety-eight cents out of that gold dollar.” And every owner of a rival invention roared with derision.
“Oh, Mr. Purser!” Louis Napoleon Brown was hailed with a suddenness that arrested his steps, but did not deprive him of his haughty mien. “I find I owe you an apology,” said Miss Mar.
His sternness of visage relaxed slightly. “Well, you have treated me mighty mean,” he admitted in a low voice.
Cheviot was staring and making his way to the girl.
“Yes,” she said, with a subdued air that might, to the purser, have seemed to be penitential, but she spoke so that Cheviot could hear, “You must have thought it very forward of me to call you ‘Louis,’ that first evening. I meant this gentleman, who is an old friend of mine. I’ve only just realized how mystified you must have been.” Wherewith she took Cheviot’s arm, and away the two went, leaving the purser transfixed.