“Now surely you said something in response to that,” interjected Berty, “such a gracious thing for her to say.”
“Never a word,” replied the Mayor, seriously, “and, seeing that I couldn’t or wouldn’t speak, she went away. After she left, words came to me, and I babbled on to myself, till the people began to look at me as if they thought I’d gone crazy, then I moved on.”
“Well,” said Berty, with badly suppressed scorn, “this is a great tale. Where have you distinguished yourself, pray?”
“Wait a bit,” said Mr. Jimson, soberly. “I haven’t finished. Before I left the spot I cast my eyes to the pavement. What did I see but the bit of silk she had dropped there.”
“Well,” observed Berty, in a mystified way, when he paused.
“I thought of what you said,” continued the Mayor. “I called up your hint about small things. I picked up the bit of silk.”
“And, for goodness’ sake, what did you do with it?” queried Berty, in distress. “Some fantastic thing, I’ll be bound.”
“I took it away to my office,” Mr. Jimson went on, solemnly, and with the air of keeping back some item of information that when communicated would cover him with glory. “I’ve got an office-boy as sharp as a needle. I gave him the piece of silk. I said, ‘You hold on to that as if it were a fifty-dollar greenback. You take the seven-thirty train for Boston. You match that silk, and get back here as quick as you can.’”
“Oh! oh!” cried Berty, “how much did you send for?”
“For a pound,” said the Mayor, tragically. “She said she had a peóny to work, and they’re pretty big flowers.”