"
"Tell us the whole thing," Nick Baumgarten put in; "from beginning to
end. Your letter didn't give anything away."
"A letter would have spoiled it. I can't write letters anyhow. I wanted
to wait till I got right here with you fellows round where I could
answer questions. First off," with the deliberation befitting such an
opening, "I've sold machines enough to pay my expenses, and leave some
over."
"You have? Gee whiz! Say, give us your prescription. Glad I know you,
Georgy!"
"And who do you suppose bought the first three?" At this point, it
was he who leaned forward upon the table--his climax being a thing to
concentrate upon. "Reuben S. Vanderpoel's daughter--Miss Bettina! And,
boys, she gave me a letter to Reuben S., himself, and here it is."
He produced a flat leather pocketbook and took an envelope from an inner
flap, laying it before them on the tablecloth. His knowledge that they
would not have believed him if he had not brought his proof was founded
on everyday facts. They would not have doubted his veracity, but
the possibility of such delirious good fortune. What they would have
believed would have been that he was playing a hilarious joke on
them. Jokes of this kind, but not of this proportion, were common
entertainments.
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