“One would say, taking the four lines together, that Dad probably got the better of Jamie in the end. But who thinks of ranking him, for that reason, with the world’s famed conquerors? Preposterous! They were obviously too evenly matched. See? No one knows, even, who Dad was, or Jamie; or what Bowlin’ Green drank their gore. (Ching! ching!) D natural. Nor even the name of the poet. Some old, old Aryan myth, I suppose, symbolizing the struggle between Light and Darkness,—‘in the morning Dad’—the sun—‘was seen a-punchin’ Jamie’—moon, of course—‘on the Bowlin’ Green,’—that is, this beautiful world. (Ching! ching!) What are you up to?”
Alice had made a dive at Charley, who, mistaking her object, defended himself vigorously. Meantime, she had darted with her right hand down into his breast-pocket, drawing out the manuscript.
“If you supposed I wished to kiss your juleppy moustache, you are much mistaken. This is what I wanted.” And she brandished the Essay high in the air in triumph. “I knew it! I knew it!” cried she. “Listen, Jack!”
“‘Baltimore, August 14, 1885.
“‘Charles Frobisher, Esq.:
“‘Dear Sir,—‘The guano will be shipped by to-morrow’s boat, as per valued order.
“‘Very truly yours,
“‘Bumpkins & Windup.’
“And look here—and look here,—nothing but a lot of business letters. He has not written one line! His so-called Essay on Military Glory is a myth!”
“We got the juleps, at any rate. Jack-Whack, you write it up.”