“Yes,” said Kedzie, with as much modesty as a queen could show, incidentally noting that the man who bespoke her so timidly was plainly a real swell. She was getting so now that she could tell the real from the plated.
“I heard them murdering you in there and I—Well, Mrs. Cheever asked me to look you up and see how you were getting along. I see you are.”
“Mrs. Cheever!” said Kedzie, searching her memory. Then, with great kindliness, “Oh yes! I remember her.”
“You've forgotten me, I suppose. I had the pleasure—the sad pleasure of helping you out of the water at Mrs. Noxon's.”
“Oh, Lord, yes,” Kedzie cried, forgetting her rank. “You're Jim Dyckman—I mean, Mr. Dyckman.”
“So you remember my name,” he flushed. “Well, I must say!”
“I didn't remember to thank you,” said Kedzie. “I was all damp and mad. I've often thought of writing to you.” And she had.
“I wish you had,” said Dyckman. “Well, well!”
He didn't know what to say, and so he laughed and she laughed and they were well acquainted. Then he thought of a good one.
“I pulled you out of the cold water, so it's your turn to pull me out of the hot.”