“The devil you did! What does she say? Is she coming?”
“How do I know? Haven’t opened it. It’s addressed to you.”
Joe caught up the letter, dropped into a chair and tore apart the envelope. Inside was the missive and a printed enclosure.
Sam edged nearer, awaiting the verdict, his eyes reading Joe’s face as he scanned the lines.
Joe read on to the end, and passed the open sheet to Atwater without a word. It bore the image and superscription of “The United Family Laundry Association, Limited,” and was signed by the vice-president and treasurer.
“Read it, Sam, and go out in the hall and swear. G-r-i-m-e-s-b-y, eh? Don’t even know how to spell my name. Here, hand it back, and listen.
“Joseph Grimesby, Esq.,
“Dear Sir: My wife can’t come. Neither can her daughter. But I will show up at nine o’clock. I enclose one of our circulars. Look it over. The last sale of our stock was at par.
“Yours, etc.,
“Ebner Ford,
“Vice-President and Treasurer.”
“Her daughter!” exploded Joe. “What does that mean?”