"Zeb," she says, half laughin', "I—I'm almost afraid we ought to go to the insane asylum."
I laughed out loud then. "Not just yet," I told her. "We're goin' on a cruise down South Street fust."
So I hired a hack—street cars ain't good enough for a man on his weddin' trip—and the feller drove us to the number I give him on South Street. The old place looked mighty familiar.
"Is Mr. Pike in?" I asked the bookkeeper, who had hollered my name out as if he was glad to see me.
"Why, yes, Cap'n Snow, he's in. I'll tell him you're here."
"Wait a minute," says I. "Is he alone? Good! Then I'll tell him myself. Come, Mary."
Pike was in his private office, not lookin' a day older than when I left him four years and a half ago. He looked up, jumped, and then grabbed me by both hands. "Why, Cap'n Zeb!" he sung out. "If this isn't good for sore eyes. How are you? What are you doin' here in New York? By George, I'm glad to see you! What—"
"Wait!" I interrupted. "Business fust, and pleasure afterwards. I'm here to pay my debts."
"Debts?" says he, wonderin'.
"Yes," I says. "Did you get a hat from me four year or so ago?"