“Nothing,” agreed Mr. Baxter enthusiastically.
“Absolutely fair,” put in Mr. Link.
“How can she tell a fortune without seeing the object of it?” demanded Mrs. Gooch.
“Well,” began Mr. Sikes, and then was forced to scratch his head for want of a convincing answer. “Wait a minute. I’ll see.” He hurried out again.
“Old Bob Hawkins that used to drive the hearse for me had his fortune told just about two weeks after he got married, and every word of it came true,” said Mr. Link. “He always claimed if he’d had it told two or three weeks sooner he might have had enough sense to skip out or something.”
“It is all poppycock,” announced Mr. Sage. “The veriest poppycock.”
“I had mine told,” said his wife, “when I was nineteen. It said I was going to marry a dark-complexioned man and go on a long journey.”
“Well, there you are,” said Mr. Baxter triumphantly. “The Reverend Sage is a brunette and it’s considerably over a hundred miles from Chicago to Rumley. There’s something in it, Serepty. Here’s proof that can’t be denied.”
“It’s all as simple as falling off a log,” announced Mr. Sikes, from the door. “She says the only reliable and genuine way to tell a baby’s fortune is by reading its father’s hand. That’s the way it’s been done ever since—er—astronomy was invented.”
Mr. Baxter arose. “Bring her in, Joe. Now, don’t kick, Serepty. My mind’s made up. I’m going to have my way for once.”