“You’ve come—that’s the good news that I want,” he replied. “O how I have longed for you, Loudon!”
“I couldn’t do what you wrote me,” I said, lowering my voice. “The creditors have it all. I couldn’t do it.”
“S-s-h!” returned Jim. “I was crazy when I wrote. I could never have looked Mamie in the face if we had done it. O, Loudon, what a gift that woman is! You think you know something of life; you just don’t know anything. It’s the goodness of the woman, it’s a revelation!”
“That’s all right,” said I. “That’s how I hoped to hear you, Jim.”
“And so the Flying Scud was a fraud,” he resumed. “I didn’t quite understand your letter, but I made out that.”
“Fraud is a mild term for it,” said I. “The creditors will never believe what fools we were.—And that reminds me,” I continued, rejoicing in the transition, “how about the bankruptcy?”
“You were lucky to be out of that,” answered Jim, shaking his head; “you were lucky not to see the papers. The Occidental called me a fifth-rate kerb-stone broker with water on the brain; another said I was a tree-frog that had got into the same meadow with Longhurst, and had blown myself out till I went pop. It was rough on a man in his honeymoon; so was what they said about my looks, and what I had on, and the way I perspired. But I braced myself up with the Flying Scud.—How did it exactly figure out, anyway? I don’t seem to catch on to that story, Loudon.”
“The devil you don’t!” thinks I to myself; and then aloud, “You see, we had neither one of us good luck. I didn’t do much more than cover current expenses, and you got floored immediately. How did we come to go so soon?”
“Well, we’ll have to have a talk over all this,” said Jim, with a sudden start. “I should be getting to my books, and I guess you had better go up right away to Mamie. She’s at Speedy’s. She expects you with impatience. She regards you in the light of a favourite brother, Loudon.”
Any scheme was welcome which allowed me to postpone the hour of explanation, and avoid (were it only for a breathing space) the topic of the Flying Scud. I hastened accordingly to Bush Street. Mrs. Speedy, already rejoicing in the return of a spouse, hailed me with acclamation. “And it’s beautiful you’re looking, Mr. Dodd, my dear,” she was kind enough to say. “And a muracle they naygur waheenies let ye lave the oilands. I have my suspicions of Shpeedy,” she added roguishly. “Did ye see him after the naygresses now?”