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He's puffin' away at a Cassadora cigar that must have measured seven inches over-all when it left the box. In fact, the Gummidges are displayin' all the usual marks of wealth and refinement. "But tell me," gasps Vee, "what on earth has happened? How did did you get it?" "Oil," says Pa Gummidge. Vee looks blank. "I I don't understand," says she.
It's well along in the afternoon before I sees an openin' to drop this option in front of Old Hickory, grabbin' a minute when his desk is fairly clear, and slammin' it down just as though it had been sent in through Piddie. "Delivered on," says I. "Wants rush answer by mail." "Huh!" grunts Old Hickory, lightin' up a fresh Cassadora.
I forget just what important problem we was settlin'. But it must have been something weighty and serious. Millions at stake, most likely. Thousands anyway. Or it might have been when we should start the Saturday half-holidays. All I remember is that we was grouped around the big mahogany desk; Old Hickory in the middle chewin' away at the last three inches of a Cassadora; Mr.
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