“I don’t know. But they’re good ones, anyway. Why don’t you get Routh to write a letter, before the thing cools down? It could be in the evening edition, you know. There have been horrid things this morning—allusions—that sort of thing.”
“Allusions to what?” asked Ralston, quickly and sharply.
“To you, of course—what did you suppose?”
“Oh—to me! As though I cared! All the same, if old Routh would write, it would be a good thing. I wish he were going to be at the Van De Waters’ dinner to-night.”
“Why? Are you going there? So am I.”
“It seems to be a sort of family tea-party,” said Ralston. “Bright’s going, and cousin Katharine, and you and I. It only needs the Crowdies and a few others to make it complete.”
“Well—you see, they’re cousins of mine, and so are you, and that sort of makes us all cousins,” observed Miner, absently. “I say, Jack—tell the story at table, just as you’ve told it to me. Will you? I’ll set you on by asking you questions. Stunning effect—especially if we can get Routh to write the letter. I’ll cut it out of a paper and bring it with me.”
“You know him, don’t you?” asked Ralston.
“Know him? I should think so. Ever since I was a baby. Why?”