"Just to prove it," he said, "I'll chuck it out of the window." He flung up the sash and made ready to hurl his enemy into the flying landscape.
"Bravo!" cried Mrs. Wellington.
But even as his hand was about to let go, he tightened his clutch again, and pondered: "It seems a shame to waste it."
"I thought so," said Mrs. Jimmie, drooping perceptibly. Her husband began to feel that, after all, she cared what became of him.
"I'll tell you," he said, "I'll give it to old Doc Temple. He takes his straight."
"Fine!"
He turned towards the seat where the clergyman and his wife were sitting, oblivious of the drama of reconciliation playing so close at hand. Little Jimmie paused, caressed the flask, and kissed it. "Good-bye, old playmate!" Then, tossing his head with bravado, he reached out and touched the clergyman's shoulder. Dr. Temple turned and rose with a questioning look. Wellington put the flask in his hand and chuckled: "Merry Christmas!"
"But, my good man——" the preacher objected, finding in his hand a donation about as welcome and as wieldy as a strange baby. Wellington winked: "It may come in handy for—your patients."
And now, struck with a sudden idea, Mrs. Wellington spoke: "Oh, Mrs. Temple."
"Yes, my dear," said the little old lady, rising. Mrs. Wellington placed in her hand a small portfolio and laughed: "Happy New Year!"