“The fact is, with regard to what she said about other folks’ need, and another life, and so on, those things of course are so; but as for my needy neighbor, why, look at my needy self—ha—ha!”
Here Chauncy gave one of his quick, ready laughs, that had something of the sound of a new half dollar when you throw it on a counter; ringing, yet hard and metallic. “There is my Uncle Bezaleel. His motto is, ‘Don’t forget number one,’ and how he has pulled the money in! Nobody stands higher in the market.”
“Bezaleel?” asked Walter, catching at the word.
“Yes, Bezaleel Baggs.”
“Beelzebub your uncle?” Walter was about to say, remembering Aunt Lydia’s habit of speech; but he checked this imprudent phraseology and remarked, “Bez—Bezaleel Baggs your uncle?”
“Yes, and a smart one. He is a great land–owner, buying up whole forests, and he runs mills and so on. He expects to give me a lift, perhaps take me in business with him. That’s my uncle.”
“Indeed!” thought Walter.
“Oh,” resumed Chauncy, “we were speaking of May Elliott’s composition. Well, I was going to say about her pious remarks at the close, that they are well enough in their place, of course; but if she meant me when she looked our way, I only want to say that there will be time for that by and by. You can think them over, if you want to.”
Walter made no reply and the two separated.