“I’m obliged to you, Ken, old man,” he said, vaguely—“a thousand times obliged.”
“Mein Gott! you are crazy!” cried the watchmaker, dropping his spectacles for the first time in years.
Two months afterward Kenwitz went into a large bakery on lower Broadway with a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses that he had mended for the proprietor.
A lady was giving an order to a clerk as Kenwitz passed her.
“These loaves are ten cents,” said the clerk.
“I always get them at eight cents uptown,” said the lady. “You need not fill the order. I will drive by there on my way home.”
The voice was familiar. The watchmaker paused.
“Mr. Kenwitz!” cried the lady, heartily. “How do you do?”
Kenwitz was trying to train his socialistic and economic comprehension on her wonderful fur boa and the carriage waiting outside.
“Why, Miss Boyne!” he began.