“That’s buggy-riding,” said Henry, affably. “Buggy-riding’s a generic term. Don’t blush. I was young myself, once.”
Mr. Mix fought down his anger. “You’re very much of a joker, Henry. It seems to run in the family. Your uncle––”
“Yes, and Aunt Mirabelle, too.”
“What?”
“Oh, yes,” said Henry. “Aunt Mirabelle’s a joker, too. She advised me not to run the Orpheum in the first place; she’d rather have had me trade it and go into something more respectable, 181 and profitable. Doesn’t that strike you as funny? It does me.”
Mentally, Mr. Mix bit his lip, but outwardly he was ministerial. “I’m afraid you’re too subtle for me.”
“I was afraid of that myself.”
“Isn’t business good?” His voice was solicitous.
Henry was reminded of what Judge Barklay had twice expressed, and for a casual experiment, he tried to plumb the depths of Mr. Mix’s interest.
“Oh, with a few new schemes I’ve got, I guess I’ll clean up eleven or twelve thousand this year.”