He drew a great fat roll of money from his waistcoat pocket, and offered me a two-dollar bill.
“O, no! I thank you, sir,” I hastened to say. “I don't want any money.”
“O, well! this ain't no money to speak of, Bubby; only a two-tollar pill. You just take it, and buy yourself a little keepsake. It von't hurt you.”
“You're very kind, sir; but I really can't take it, thank you.” And it flashed through my mind: “What would Uncle Florimond think of me, if I should accept his money?”
“Well, dot's too bad. I really like to make you a little present, Bubby. But if you was too proud, what you say if I give it to the other boy, hey?”
“Oh! to Sam—yes, I think that would be a very good idea,” I replied.
So he called Sam—Sem was the way he pronounced it—and gave him the two-dol-lar bill, which Sam received without the faintest show of compunction.
“Well, I got to go now,” the fisherman said, holding out his hand. “Well, good-by, Bubby; and don't forget, when you come to New York, to give me a call. Well, so-long.”
Sam and I watched him till he got out of sight. Then we too started for home.
At the time, my talk with Mr. Solomon D. Marx did not make any especial impression on me; but a few days later it came back to me, the subject of serious meditation. The circumstances were as follows:—