XXVIII.
“Hello!” said Bartley, one day after the autumn had brought back all the summer wanderers to the city, “I haven't seen you for a month of Sundays.” He had Ricker by the hand, and he pulled him into a doorway to be a little out of the rush on the crowded pavement, while they chatted.
“That's because I can't afford to go to the White Mountains, and swell round at the aristocratic summer resorts like some people,” returned Ricker. “I'm a horny-handed son of toil, myself.”
“Pshaw!” said Bartley. “Who isn't? I've been here hard at it, except for three days at one time and live at another.”
“Well, all I can say is that I saw in the Record personals, that Mr. Hubbard, of the Events, was spending the summer months with his father-in-law, Judge Gaylord, among the spurs of the White Mountains. I supposed you wrote it yourself. You're full of ideas about journalism.”
“Oh, come! I wouldn't work that joke any more. Look here, Ricker, I'll tell you what I want. I want you to dine with me.”
“Dines people!” said Ricker, in an awestricken aside.
“No,—I mean business! You Ve never seen my kid yet: and you've never seen my house. I want you to come. We've all got back, and we're in nice running order. What day are you disengaged?”
“Let me see,” said Ricker, thoughtfully. “So many engagements! Wait! I could squeeze your dinner in some time next month, Hubbard.”