The next minute he was seized by Mr Parkley, who backed him up into a corner, where he seized one particular button on the young man’s breast—a habit he had, going to the same particular button as a small pig seeks the same single spot when in search of nutriment.
“Dutch,” said Mr Parkley, as soon as they were alone, and while he was busily trying with his left hand to screw the button off, “Dutch, shake hands.”
The young man did so wonderingly.
“That’s right: no one’s looking. That chap’s going to sing another song, and little Hester’s getting ready the music. See here, Dutch, you won’t be offended at what I say?”
“Offended? Absurd!”
“Old, tried, staunch friend, you know. Wouldn’t say a word to hurt you, and I love that little girl of yours like a father—just as if she was my own flesh and blood.”
“And I’m sure Hester loves and respects you, Mr Parkley.”
“Yes, yes, of course; and that’s what makes me so wild about it.”
“I don’t understand you, Mr Parkley,” said Dutch, uneasily.
“There, that’s what I was afraid of when I spoke. But I must say it now, Pugh. I’m afraid I made a mistake in asking you to invite that Cuban hero. I’ll tell him to come and stay with me.”