“They wouldn’t believe me,” answered Miner, quietly.
“I say, Frank—” John’s quick temper was stirred already, but he checked himself.
“It’s all right, Jack,” answered Miner. “I believe every word you’ve told me, because I know you don’t invent—except about leaving cards on stray acquaintances at the Imperial, when you happen to be thirsty.”
He laughed good-naturedly.
“That’s another of your mistakes,” said Ralston. “I know—you mean last Monday. I did leave cards at the hotel. I also had a cocktail. I didn’t say I wasn’t going to, and I wasn’t obliged to say so, was I? It wasn’t your business, my dear boy, nor Ham Bright’s, either.”
“Well—I’m glad you did, then. I’m glad the cards were real, though it struck me as thin at the time. I apologize, and eat humble pie. You know you’re one of my illusions, Jack. There are two or three to which I cling. You’re a truthful beggar, somehow. You ought to have a little hatchet, like George Washington—but I daresay you’d rather have a little cocktail. It illustrates your nature just as well. Bury the hatchet and pour the cocktail over it as a libation—where was I? Oh—this is what I meant, Jack. Other people won’t believe the story, if I tell it, you know.”
“Well—but there’s old Routh, after all. People will believe him.”
“Yes—if he takes the trouble to write a letter to the papers, over his name, degrees and qualifications. Of course they’ll believe him. And the editors will do something handsome. They won’t apologize, but they’ll say that a zebra got loose in the office and upset the type while they were in Albany attending to the affairs of the Empire State—and that’s just the same as an apology, you know, which is all you care for. You can’t storm Park Row with the gallant Four Hundred at your back. In the first place, Park Row’s insured, and secondly, the Four Hundred would see you—further—before they’d lift one of their four thousand fingers to help you out of a scrape which doesn’t concern them. You’d have to be a parson or a pianist, before they’d do anything for you. It’s ‘meat, drink and pantaloons’ to be one of them, anyhow—and you needn’t expect anything more.”
“Where do you get your similes from, Frank!” laughed Ralston.