Part 28 (1/2)

”Good night, Fannie,” said Molly. ”I'm going in. To-morrow's ironing day. Good night, Mr. Wallingford.”

”Good night,” returned Miss Fannie, as a matter of course, and again Wallingford harked back. He was to take Miss Fannie home. Quite naturally. Why not?

It was a long walk, but by no means too long, and when they had arrived at the big, fret-sawed house of Jonas Bubble, J. Rufus was sorry. He lingered a moment at the gate, but only a moment, for a woman's shrill voice called:

”Is that you, Fannie? You come right in here and go to bed! Who's that with you?”

”You'd better go right away, please,” pleaded Fannie in a flutter.

”I'm not allowed to be with strangers.”

This would have been the cue for a less adroit and diplomatic caller to hurry silently back up the street, and, as a matter of fact, this entirely conventional course was all that Mrs. Bubble had looked for.

She was accordingly shocked when the gate opened, and in place of Fannie coming alone, J. Rufus, in spite of the girl's protest, walked deliberately up to the porch.

”Is Mr. Bubble at home?” he asked with great dignity.

Mrs. Bubble gasped.

”I reckon he is,” she admitted.

”I'd like to see him, if possible.”

There was another moment of silence, in which Mrs. Bubble strove to readjust herself.

”I'll call him,” she said, and went in.

Mr. Jonas Bubble, revealed in the light of the open door, proved to be a pursy man of about fifty-five, full of importance from his square-toed shoes to his gray sideburns; he exuded importance from every vest b.u.t.ton upon the bulge of his rotundity, and importance glistened from the very top of his bald head.

”I am J. Rufus Wallingford,” said that broad-chested young gentleman, whose impressiveness was at least equal to Mr. Bubble's importance, and he produced a neatly-engraved card to prove the genuineness of his name. ”I was introduced to your daughter at the hotel, and I came down to consult with you upon a little matter of business.”

”I usually transact business at my office,” said Mr. Bubble pompously; ”nevertheless, you may come inside.”

He led the way into a queer combination of parlor, library, sitting-room and study, where he lit a big, hanging gasolene lamp, opened his old swinging top desk with a key which he carefully and pompously selected from a pompous bunch, placed a plush-covered chair for his visitor, and seated himself upon an old leather-stuffed chair in front of the desk.

”Now, sir,” said he, swinging around to Wallingford and puffing out his cheeks, ”I am ready to consider whatever you may have to say.”

Mr. Wallingford's first action was one well-calculated to inspire interest. First he drew out the desk slide at Mr. Bubble's left; then from his inside vest pocket he produced a large flat package of greenbacks, no bill being of less than a hundred dollars'

denomination. From this pile he carefully counted out eight thousand dollars, and put the balance, which Mr. Bubble hastily estimated at about fifteen hundred, back in his pocket. This procedure having been conducted with vast and impressive silence, Mr. Wallingford cleared his throat.

”I have come to ask a great favor of you,” said he, sinking his voice to barely above a whisper. ”I am a stranger here. I find, unfortunately, that there is no bank in Blakeville, and I have more money with me than I care to carry about. I learned that you are the only real man of affairs in the town, and have come to ask you if you would kindly make room for this in your private safe for a day or so.”

Mr. Bubble, rotating his thumbs slowly upon each other, considered that money in profound silence. The possessor of so much loose cash was a gentleman, a man to be respected.

”With pleasure,” said Mr. Bubble. ”I don't myself like to have so much money about me, and I'd advise you, as soon as convenient, to take it up to Millford, where I do my banking. In the meantime, I don't blame you, Mr. Wallingford, for not wanting to carry this much money about with you, nor for hesitating to put it in Jim Ranger's old tin safe.”

”Thank you,” said Wallingford. ”I feel very much relieved.”

Mr. Bubble drew paper and pen toward him.

”I'll write you a receipt,” he offered.

”Not at all; not at all,” protested Wallingford, having gaged Mr.