“We usually called Phœnix Happy Jack, on account of his rollicking ways,” returns John.
“Wonderful!” murmurs the Canadian.
As for the colonel, his red face glows with a sudden zeal. His manner reminds one of the setter quivering with excitement, upon scenting the game close at hand.
“Craig, tell me, wasn’t that the name of the gay young dog who was with you last night? When you related that adventure a while ago, I’m dead certain you called him Happy Jack, and that he said he knew Phœnix?”
“Just so, colonel, and unless he’s flown you’ll find him at the Sherman House.”
“Good Heavens! was ever a man so beset?”
“What now, Rocket?” asks John, smiling.
“Too much of a good thing. I feel like the poor devil who was undecided which girl to marry, and who in his dilemma sung: 'How happy could I be with either, were t’ other dear charmer away.’ I’ve got my hand on one party, and the other is at the Sherman House. If I leave one I may lose both, and a bird in the hand’s worth two in the bush.” John is the coolest, most unconcerned man in the house. He actually laughs.
“Poor colonel!” he says.
“Perfectly heartless! Young man, what am I to do under these distressing circumstances?”