“Exactly!” I agreed.
He drew a deep sigh of relief. With apparent irrelevance but with a carelessness that was obviously assumed, he continued.
“Since I come to America,” he announced, “I have made heaps of money.” As though in evidence of his prosperity, he flashed the high hat. In the sunlight it coruscated like one of his wife's diamonds. “Heaps of money,” he repeated. “The mills are still in my name,” he went on, “but five years since I sold them—We live on the income. We own Harbor Castle, the finest house on the whole waterfront.”
“When all the windows are lit up,” interjected Mrs. Farrell, “it's often took for a Fall River boat!”
“When I was building it,” Farrell continued, smoothly, “they called it Farrell's Folly; but not NOW.” In friendly fashion he winked at me, “Standard Oil,” he explained, “offered half a million for it. They wanted my wharf for their tank steamers. But, I needed it for my yacht!”
I must have sat up rather too suddenly, for, seeing the yacht had reached home, Mr. Farrell beamed. Complacently his wife smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in her skirt.
“Eighteen men!” she protested, “with nothing to do but clean brass and eat three meals a day!”
Farrell released his death grip on the silk hat to make a sweeping gesture.
“They earn their wages,” he said generously.
“Aren't they taking us this week to Cap May?”