“'Cause he's a widower,” he says. “Them's the softest kind.”
“Well, you ought to know,” I told him. “You're one yourself. But, from what I've heard, soft things are scarce in Wall Street. Bet you seventy-five cents to a quarter it don't work.”
He wouldn't take me, having scruples against betting—except when he had the answer in his pocket. But he went away cackling joyful, and that night Van Wedderburn arrived.
Van was a substantial-looking old relic, built on the lines of the Boston State House, broad in the beam and with a shiny dome on top. But he could qualify for the nervous dyspepsy class all right, judging by his language to the depot-wagon driver. When he got through making remarks because one of his trunks had been forgot, that driver's quotation, according to Peter T., had “dropped to thirty cents, with a second assessment called.” I jedged the meals at our table would be as agreeable as a dog-fight.
However, 'twas up to me, and I towed him in and made him acquainted with Mabel. She wa'n't enthusiastic—having heard some of the driver sermon, I cal'late—until I mentioned his name. Then she gave a little gasp like. When Van had gone up to his rooms, puffing like a donkey-engyne and growling 'cause there wa'n't no elevators, she took me by the arm and says she:
“WHAT did you say his name was, Mr. Wingate?”
“Van Wedderburn,” says I. “The New York millionaire one.”
“Not of Van Wedderburn & Hamilton, the bankers?” she asks, eager.
“That's him,” says I. “Why? Do you know him? Did his ma used to do washing at your house?”
She laughed, but her face was all lit up and her eyes fairly shone. I could have—but there! never mind.