“Oh, you just quit the foolin’ game, Tom. Don’t come nachural from you. Besides I might be gettin’ a heap peevish and kind o’ awkward with my artillery. Suppose we lubricate?”
So the old cronies crossed over to the Wren saloon, where a brace of cocktails soon restored Jim’s ruffled dignity.
Meanwhile the automobile was speeding along.
Roderick was on the driver’s seat beside Whitley, and absorbing the news.
“Oh, I just insisted on your Uncle Allen coming along,” Whitley was telling him. “And Aunt Lois, too. My old folks will arrive at the end of the week. Meantime Aunt Lois is helping me with my trousseau.”
“Your trousseau!”
“Yes—socks and things. You see it’s all fixed up between me and dear Dorothy. Oh, she’s the best girl ever—you’ll remember I said that from the first, Rod, my boy.” His face became grave, and his voice took a humble tone. “Of course I know I can never, fill the place of Grant Jones, and I told her that. But I’ll do my best to make her happy, and I think she cares enough for me to let me try.”
Roderick pressed the hand next him resting on the steering wheel.
“I’m sure you’ll be very happy, both of you,” he said; “and I congratulate you, Whitley, old fellow, from the bottom of my heart.”
Whitley looked round and was his gay, light-hearted self once again.