"Poor Peaches!" I said sympathetically; "that's what you get for drinking too much tea."
"I mean it seriously, John!" she cried eagerly. "Uncle Peter has booked passages on the Oceanic for the whole family, and he is going to pay all the expenses for a three months' trip."
"Water! water!" I gasped faintly, and I meant it, but Peaches thought I was only cutting up.
"I knew you'd be delighted," she capered on; "and it was all I could do to keep from telling you long ago. Uncle Peter says that this is the dull season in your brokerage business and the trip will do you a world of good. You need only take a few hundred dollars for pocket money, and he's going to invest your $5,000 where it will be immensely productive."
I could only sit and listen and pass away.
What would become of Skinski and Bunch and our good money!
How could I ever account for the missing funds without leading Peaches down to Wall Street and showing her the tall buildings they had built with my dough.
And while these dismal thoughts ran through my mind Peaches grabbed that European trip between her pearly teeth and shook the delights out of it.
That night I had an attack of insomnia, neurasthenia, nervous prostration and the nightmare, with cinematograph pictures on the side.
All night long Skinski had me on the stage in a wicker basket, while Uncle Peter jabbed a sword through me and Dodo sat in the front row on the aisle yelling "You betcher sweet!"