“You've guessed it, Alvy, you've guessed it.”
Mr. Hopkins gazed at him in admiration, leaned out of the perpendicular, and promptly drew from his trousers' pocket a roll of stupendous proportions. Wetting his thumb, he began to push aside the top bills.
“How much is it?” he demanded.
But Jethro put up his hand.
“No hurry, Alvy—n-no hurry. H-Honorable Alvy Hopkins of Gosport—p-patron of the theatre. Hain't the first time you've b'en a patron, Alvy.”
“Jethro,” said Mr. Hopkins, solemnly, putting up his money, “I'm much obliged to you. I'm free to say I'd never have thought of it. If you ain't the all-firedest smartest man in America to-day,—I don't except any, even General Grant,—then I ain't the next governor of this state.”
Whereupon he lapsed into an even more expressive silence, his face still glowing.
“Er—Alvy,” said Jethro presently, “what's the name of your gal?”
“Well,” said Mr. Hopkins, “I guess you've got me. We did christen her Lily, but she didn't turn out exactly Lily. She ain't the type,” said Mr. Hopkins, slowly, not without a note of regret, and lapsed into silence.
“W-what did you say her name was, Alvy?”