“Don’t wait too long,” advised the kindly tailor. “If you get after it in time it can be checked, they say, although I don’t believe it. In the family?”
“Not yet,” said his customer, absently. “A week from to-day.” A reflection which puzzled the tailor vastly.
Whatever may have been in Harvey’s mind at the moment was swept away forever by the sudden appearance in the shop door of Bobby Nixon, the “boy” at Davis’.
“Say, Harvey,” bawled the lad, “come on, quick! Mrs. Davis is over at the store and she’s red-headed because you’ve been away for 228 more’n an hour. She’s got a telegram from some’eres and––”
“A telegram!” gasped Harvey, turning pale. “Who from?”
“How should I know?” shouted Bobby. “But she’s got blood in her eye, you can bet on that.”
Harvey did not wait for the tailor to strip the skeleton of the Prince Albert from his back, but dashed out of the shop in wild haste.
Mrs. Davis was behind the prescription counter. She had been weeping. At the sight of him she burst into fresh lamentations.
“Oh, Harvey, I’ve got terrible news for you—just terrible! But I won’t put up with it! I won’t have it! It’s abominable! She ought to be tarred and feathered and––”
Harvey began to tremble.