“What young man?” roared old Jacob.
“A millionaire, if you please, sir—a rich nobleman in disguise. He carries his money with him, and the red peppers and the onions was only to blind us, sir. He never did seem to take to me.”
Jacob rushed out in time to catch his car. The chauffeur had been delayed by trying to light a cigarette in the wind.
“Here, Gaston, or Mike, or whatever you call yourself, scoot around the corner quicker than blazes and see if you can see a cab. If you do, run it down.”
There was a cab in sight a block away. Gaston, or Mike, with his eyes half shut and his mind on his cigarette, picked up the trail, neatly crowded the cab to the curb and pocketed it.
“What t’ell you doin’?” yelled the cabman.
“Pa!” shrieked Celia.
“Grandfather’s remorseful friend’s agent!” said Thomas. “Wonder what’s on his conscience now.”
“A thousand thunders,” said Gaston, or Mike. “I have no other match.”
“Young man,” said old Jacob, severely, “how about that parlor maid you were engaged to?”