"Goin' to blow it up?" I says.
"I hope," says he, gettin' a little red under the eyes, "to spend my honeymoon there; that is, if the Princess Padova—"
"The who?" says I. "Oh, you mean the lady brigandess?"
"If the Princess Padova," says he, keepin' straight on, "doesn't prefer some other place. We sail to-morrow."
"Then—then—" says I, catchin' my breath, "you've done it?"
It was silly askin' him. Why, it stuck out all over his face. I don't know what I said next, but it didn't matter much. He was too far up in the air to hear anything in particular. Just as we shakes hands though, he passes me an envelope and says:
"Shorty, I wish you'd take this down to my lawyer next Monday morning. It's a little matter I haven't had time to fix up."
"Sure," says I. "I'll tie up any loose ends. And don't forget to give my regards to old Vincenzo."
Say, I s'pose I'd ought to told him what a mark he'd made of himself, takin' a chance with any such wild-rose runnin' mate as that; but somehow it seemed all right, for him. I couldn't get a view of the Boss mated up with any silk-lined, city-broke girl. I guess Miss Padova was about his style, after all; and I reckon it would take a man like him to manage one of her high flyin' kind. Anyway, I'm glad he got her.
I was sorry to lose the Boss, though. "It's me to go back to trainin' four flush comers again," says I, when he'd gone. And say, I wa'n't feelin' gay over the prospect. Some of these mitt artists is nice, decent boys, but then again you'll find others that you can't take much pride in.