Average Jones mentioned a destination for Rawson’s beetles deeper than they had, ever digged for prey.
“Yes, Sir,” assented Simpson. “But if I might suggest, there’s a very interesting advertisement in yesterday’s paper repeated this morn—”
“I don’t want to see it.”
“No, Sir. But—but still—it—it seems to have a strange reference to the burial of the million-dollar dog, and an invitation that I thought—”
“Where is it? Give it to me!” For once in his life, high pressure of excitement had blotted out Average Jones’ drawl. His employee thrust into his hand this announcement from the Banner of that morning:
DIED—At 100 West 26th Street, Sept. 14, Peter Paul, a dog, for many years the faithful and fond companion of the late Amelia Van Haltern. Burial in accordance with the wish and will of Mrs. Van Haltern, at the family estate, Schuylkill, Sept. 17, at o’clock. His friend, Don Quixote, is especially bidden to come, if he will.
Average Jones leaped to his feet. “My parable,” he cried. “Don Quixote and the damsel in distress. Where’s my hat? Where’s the time-table? Get a cab! Simpson, you idiot, why didn’t you make me read this before, confound you! I mean God bless you. Your salary’s doubled from to-day. I’m off.”
“Yes, Sir,” said the bewildered Simpson, “but about Ramson’s beetles?”
“Tell him, to turn ’em out to pasture and keep ’em as long as they live, at my expense,” called back Average Jones as the door slammed behind him.
Miss Sylvia Graham looked down upon a slender finger ornamented with the oddest and the most appropriate of engagement rings, a scarab beetle red-banded with three deep-hued rubies.