Well, the minute she gets wise that it’s all a job that Pinckney and I have put up between us, and discovers that my giddy lookin’ friend is only Cousin Cornelia doin’ the butterfly act, the thunder storm is all over. The waiter shoves up another table, and they plants Durgin next to Cornie, and the festivities takes a new start.
Did Durgin boy forget all about them chilly feet of his? Why, you could almost see the frost startin’ out before he’d said a dozen words, and by the time he’d let the whole effect sink in, he was no nearer contractin’ chilblains than a Zulu with his heels in the campfire.
What pleases me most, though, was the scientific duck I made in the last round. We’d gone clear through the menu, and they was finishin’ up their cordials, when I spots the waiter comin’ with a slip of paper on his tray as long as a pianola roll.
“Hey, Pinckney,” says I, “see what’s comin’ now!”
And when Pinckney reached around and discovers what it is, he digs down for his roll like a true sport, never battin’ an eyelash.
“You would ring in the fam’ly on me, would you,” says I, “when I’m showin’ lady friends the sights?”