“So?” says I. “Then here’s where you got let in bad with your eyes open. You heard him tell how useless he was?”
“I did,” says Pyramid; “but I always do my own appraising when I hire men. I anticipate finding Mr. Marston somewhat useful.”
And say, that’s all I can get out of Pyramid on the subject; for when it comes to business, he’s about as chatty over his plans as a hard shell clam on the suffragette question. I’ve known him to make some freak plans; but this move of pickin’ out a yellow one like Egbert and rewardin’ him as if he was a Carnegie medal winner beat anything he’d ever sprung yet.
It’s no bluff, either. I hears of this Marston gent sportin’ around at the clubs, and it wa’n’t until I accident’lly run across an item on the Wall Street page that I gets any more details. He shows up, if you please, as secretary of the Consolidated Holding Company that there’s been so much talk about. I asks Pinckney what kind of an outfit that was; but he don’t know.
“Huh!” says I. “All I’d feel safe in givin’ Egbert to hold for me would be one end of the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“I don’t care what he holds,” says Pinckney, “if he will stay away from our little governess. She’s a treasure.”
Seems Mrs. Marston had been doin’ some great tricks with the twins, not only keepin’ ’em from marrin’ the furniture, but teachin’ ’em all kinds of knowledge and improvin’ their table manners, until it was almost safe to have ’em down to luncheon now and then.
But her life was being made miser’ble by the prospect of havin’ Egbert show up any day and create a row. She confided the whole tale to Sadie, how she was through with Marston for good, but didn’t dare tell him so, and how she sent him most of her salary to keep him away.
“The loafer!” says I. “And think of the chance I had at him there in the studio! Hanged if I don’t get even with Pyramid for that, though!”
But I didn’t. Mr. Gordon’s been too busy this season to show up for any trainin’, and it was only here the other day that I runs across him in the street.