He was what you might call Honest, which signified that all of his Low
Work had been done by Agents.
A Person of rare judgment, withal. He never copped a piece of bulky
Swag unless he had a Wheelbarrow with him at the time.
He had been going East with the Green Goods ever since the Party in
Power precipitated the first Panic.
He had Stacks of the Needful, and his Rating was AA Plus 1, to say nothing of a Reserve cached in the little Tin Box.
Daughter alone could include him to unbuckle, and melt, and jar loose, and come across, and kick in, and sting the Check-Book.
One day Bernice was a Little Girl, and the next she was head Flossie among the Debutantes, with a pack of Society Hounds pursuing in Full Cry, each willing to help count the Bank Roll.
Father was scared pink when he sized up the Field.
He still wore box-toed Boots and carried Foliage on the Sub-Maxillary so that those who came ringing the Front Bell didn't look very lucky to him.
Sometimes he would dream that he had been pushed into a Mausoleum and that a slender Cyril with a Lady's Watch strapped on his wrist was spending all of that Money for Signed Etchings.
Whereupon he would awake in a Cold Sweat and try to think of a safe
Recipe for poisoning Boulevard Blighters.