“So do I!” prayed Rube aloud, and with devoutness.
“Oh, Rutland, Rutland!” exclaimed his friend, going off into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. “There isn’t anything in this wide world half so deliciously transparent as your intentions, unless—unless,” subjoined Jerome, as soon as he could again command his voice, “unless it be Miss Josey’s juvenility.”
“Hush laughing,” said Rube, drawing near and speaking low. “See here, Devonhough, you don’t care the snap of your finger about this affair; you’ve said as much; so hold back, dear old fellow, won’t you? Give me a chance!”
“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Jerome, again going off. “‘Dear old fellow.’ That’s rich! Very dear old fellow, never so dear before!”
“Oh, go along with you,” responded Rube crossly. “Go to the devil until you can stop laughing!”
He was about to turn off in high dudgeon, when Jerome with an effort pulled himself together and soberly considered the subject. “Hold on, then! I’d like to oblige you Rutland, of course I would, but there’s Clara! She expects me to—”
“Hang Clara!” said Rube, with the natural unfraternalness of a brother.
“That’s what I propose to do,” answered Jerome. “Hang her with a wreath!”
“Don’t!” again pleaded Rube. “Not this time. If you just won’t, I’ll—”
“Rub-a-dub-dub!” beat the drum.