“Hello, Jack! What are you up to?” demanded Morris, with inner reluctance, making room for Balcomb beside him.
“What am I up to? Well, I like that! I guess this road is a common carrier all right, all right; and I bet a dollar we’re headed for the same happy port.”
Balcomb was dressed, as usual, in the latest style. His straw hat with its blue ribbon and his two-button double-breasted sack-coat were in the latest mode. He carried an overcoat of covert cloth on his arm and was further burdened with a parcel, wrapped in paper of bird’s-egg blue and tied with silver string.
“Sweets for the sweet! Carrying coals to Newcastle,—honey to the beehive! Ah me! I nearly broke my neck making that car. I shall lodge a complaint with the company to-morrow. I honestly think I have lost a lung. I had to stop to see a customer of mine who’s staying at the Imperial. Business and pleasure, all in one shot. I paid for these priceless confections, though,—sold a chunk of stock in my new flat company to an ancient jay from Bartholomew County.”
“How’s that flat scheme coming on?”
“Like a runaway trolley on a down grade. It’s going to be a high persimmon all right.”
“I don’t doubt it; but you’d better be cautious. Flats are being much overdone.”
“I haven’t applied for a guardian, my son. My wagon’s hitched to the more prosperous planets. You remember what old Prexy used to say at college,—‘Hitch your wagon to a star, but keep your feet on solid earth.’ I only use part of that advice,—the first half, I may say. The earth is only good at so much per front foot. Read your answer in the stars,—that’s my motto. And to make sure things don’t get crowded, I say with Walt Whitman, ‘I would not have the constellations any nearer.’ No, by gum!”
“I’m glad to see that you still pump the well of English undefiled. It’s commendable in you.”
“Thanks, my brother. In sign of greeting, I raise high the perpendicular hand. That’s Walt, you remember. But say, you look a little grumpy this evening. You don’t show the spirit of a man who is going cheerfully to tell his love, but rather the air of one who lets concealment, like the worm in the peach, make free lunch of his damask cheek.”