se on the Avenue--you know it, Mr.
Lonnegan--after he'd spent one hundred and fifty thousand dollars
decorating the music-room--that's the one facing the Avenue--she thought
she'd change it to Louis-Seize. Of course Sam didn't care for the money,
but it was the dirt and plaster and discomfort of it all. By the way,
after dinner, suppose you and Mr. Lonnegan, and you, too"--this to
me--"come in and have a cigar with Sam. We've got some good Reina
Victorias especially made for him--glad to have you know him."
Mac gazed out of the open door and shut his teeth tight. Lonnegan looked
down into the custard-pie face of the speaker, but made no reply. Tommy
laid a coin on the counter, shot out his cuffs, said: "See you later,"
and sauntered out.
No! There were no buds or blossoms--nothing of any kind, for that
matter--out of Tommy's reach!
The mill-owner rose to his feet, straightened his square shoulders, made
a movement as if to speak, altered his mind, shook Mac's hand warmly,
and with a bow to the tap-room, and a special nod to the barmaid,
mounted his horse and rode off. The curate looked up and smiled, his
gaze riveted on Mac.
"One of your American gentlemen, sir?" he asked. The tone was most
respectful--not a trace of sarcasm, not a line visible about the corners
of his mouth; only the gray eyes twinkled.
"No," answered Mac grimly; "_a gentleman's gentleman_."
The next morning at sunrise Mac burst into our room roaring with
laughter, slapping his pajama-incased knee with his fat hand, the tears
streaming from his eyes.
"They've gone!" he cried. "Scooted! Saw Logs, Mrs. Saw, the piece of
kindling and her maid in the first car, and--"
He was doubled up like a jack-knife.
"And left Tommy behind!" we both cried.
"Behind!" Mac was verging on apoplexy now. "Behind! Not much. He was
tucked away in the other car with the valet!"
End of Project Gutenberg's A Gentleman's Gentleman, by F. Hopkinson Smith
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