“That’s all right,” Aladdin tried to say, but Mr. Larch would not be downed.
“Wasn’t it bully, Margaret?” he said.
“Oh—hallo—hallo, Beau!” said she, starting and turning round and collecting her wits. “What? Wasn’t what bully?”
Aladdin frowned at Larch with all the forbiddingness that he could muster, but Larch was imperturbable.
“Why, Aladdin’s song!” he said. “You know, the one about the old crow—the one the man just sang.”
Here a young lady, over whom Beau Larch was leaning, confided to her escort in an audible, nervous voice that she knew Beau Larch had been drinking, but she wouldn’t say why she knew—anybody could see he had; and then she sniffed with her nose by way of indicating that seeing was not the only or best method of telling.
“You don’t mean to say—” said Margaret to Aladdin, and looked him in the eyes. “Why, Aladdin!” she said. And then: “Peter—Peter—‘Laddin wrote it, he did. Isn’t it gr-reat!”
And Peter, rising to the occasion, said, “Bully,” and “I thought it was great,” with such absolute frankness and sincerity that Aladdin’s heart almost warmed toward him. It was presently known all over the house that Aladdin had written the song. And some of the more clownish of the young people called for Author, Author. Aladdin hung his head.
At supper at the St. Johns’ later was a crisp, brisk gentleman with grayish hair, who talked in a pleasant, dry way. Aladdin learned that it was Mr. Blankinship, editor and proprietor of the Portland “Spy.” Almost immediately on learning this important item, he saw Mr. Blankinship exchange a word with Margaret and come toward him.
“Mr. O’Brien?”