“Can’t see him any more. Wheel-house shot between. I am very sorry. I should have so liked you to have let him have a hundred or so of your money. You would have been pleased with the investment, believe me.”
“Oh, I have let him have some of my money,” groaned the old man.
“You have? My dear sir,” seizing both the miser’s hands in both his own and heartily shaking them. “My dear sir, how I congratulate you. You don’t know.”
“Ugh, ugh! I fear I don’t,” with another groan. “His name is Truman, is it?”
“John Truman.”
“Where does he live?”
“In St. Louis.”
“Where’s his office?”
“Let me see. Jones street, number one hundred and—no, no—anyway, it’s somewhere or other up-stairs in Jones street.”
“Can’t you remember the number? Try, now.”