"Ahem!" says he to Mallory. "Very cozy, indeed; but—er—not exactly spacious."
"Four rooms and bath," says Mallory.
"Was—er—that the bathtub in there?" says the Senator, jerkin' his thumb at the bathroot door. "I fancied it might be—er—a pudding dish. Might I inquire what rent you pay for—er—all this?"
"Forty a month, sir," says Mallory.
"Ah! Economy, I see. Good way to begin," says he. "And if it is not too personal a question, your present salary is——"
"I'm getting twenty-five a week," says Skid, lookin' him straight between the eyes.
"Then you have a private income, I presume?" says the Senator.
"Well," says Mallory, "my aunt in Boston sends me fifty dollars every Christmas and advises me to invest my savings in Government bonds."
At that the Senator drops into a chair and whistles. "But—but how do you expect," he goes on, "to—to——Pardon me, but I am getting interested. I should like to know what was your exact financial standing when you had the imp—er—when you married my daughter?"
He gets it, down to the last nickel. Skid begins with what he had in the bank when they starts for Atlantic City, shows the hole that trip made in his funds, produces the receipts for furniture, and announces that, after punglin' up a month's rent, there's something over seven dollars left in the treasury.