Whether he or Mr. Mortimer R. Guilfogle was the more aghast at hearing him bawl this no one knows. The manager was so worried at the thought of breaking in a new man that his eye-glasses slipped off his poor perspiring nose. He begged, in sudden tones of old friendship:
“Why, you can’t be thinking of leaving us! Why, we expect to make a big man of you, Wrenn. I was joking about firing you. You ought to know that, after the talk we had at Mouquin’s the other night. You can’t be thinking of leaving us! There’s no end of possibilities here.”
“Sorry,” said the dogged soldier of dreams.
“Why—” wailed that hurt and astonished victim of ingratitude, Mr. Guilfogle.
“I’ll leave the middle of June. That’s plenty of notice,” chirruped Mr. Wrenn.
At five that evening Mr. Wrenn dashed up to the Brass-button Man at his station before the Nickelorion, crying:
“Say! You come from Ireland, don’t you?”
“Now what would you think? Me—oh no; I’m a Chinaman from Oshkosh!”
“No, honest, straight, tell me. I’ve got a chance to travel. What d’yuh think of that? Ain’t it great! And I’m going right away. What I wanted to ask you was, what’s the best place in Ireland to see?”
“Donegal, o’ course. I was born there.”