“Say, Oliver, you old skate, I’ve been looking all over town for you,” shouted Sammy Parr. “This isn’t your night to call on Jane—don’t you know that? You’re supposed to be either at the Scotts’, billing with Amy Scott, or at the Ridges’, cooing with that new girl from Boston, and listening to her talk about Harvard all the time. Say, I’ve been over to Pleasant Ridge this afternoon—good evening, Jane—to see Mrs. Bannester and her sister about some fire insurance—Evening, Mr. Sage. Nice evening—And, say, they told me all about you, you blamed old skate—I mean Ollie, not you, Mr. Sage. Gee whiz, Ollie, you certainly did throw the hooks into Uncle Horace this time, didn’t you? You certainly—”
“Shut up!” growled Oliver, scowling fiercely at the excited Sammy.
“Shut up? Why should I shut up? Why the hell should I—beg pardon, Mr. Sage—excuse my slippery tongue. My Lord, boy, the boom has already been started. You can’t head it off. I didn’t lose a minute getting over to the County Chairman’s office and telling him the whole story. The boom’s on! He nearly hit the ceiling for joy. My God, if we can only keep all this quiet till after the Democratic convention—and old Gooch is nominated—we’ll spring something—Gee whiz! Listen to me barking loud enough to be heard in Hopkinsville. Fine guy, I am, to talk about keeping it quiet. Say, we’ve got to talk in whispers from now on—whispers, see?”
As he planted himself down on the step, he delivered a mighty, resounding slap upon Oliver’s knee.
“Aw, cut it out—cut it out,” grated Oliver. “Keep your trap closed, can’t you?”
“What on earth are you talking about, Sammy?” cried Jane.
“He’s talking through his hat—”
“Out with it, Sammy, out with it,” counseled Mr. Sage, coming down the steps.
Oliver groaned: “Oh, good Lord, deliver me!”
“Say, what do you think, Mr. Sage—what do you think? Why, this chump here is the guy that lent Mrs. Bannester the money to—”