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Jim's son, Fred, eighteen, is a fine, manly boy. Of course, that part will be all right now in a month. She, too, is ambitious almost too much so, perhaps, for her happiness, in the present state of their pocketbook. But of course that, too, will be all right, after next month. Benny, the nine-year- old, will be concerned as little as any one over that hundred thousand dollars, I imagine.

So saying he produced an elegant little pocketbook bearing a gilt monogram and handed Pierre two cards, one green and the other pink. "If you only knew how people fight for them," he resumed. "You remember that I told you of two French ladies who are consumed by a desire to see his Holiness.

On our way back to the town through the hot sun, I picked some sage leaves that grew beside the path and gave them to you to put in your hat so that you might not get a headache. You smiled and caught my hand, and we made up." Ibarra smiled with happiness as he opened his pocketbook and took from it a piece of paper in which were wrapped some dry, blackened leaves which gave off a sweet odor.

A petty domestic quarrel suggested itself as the obvious solution, but the buoyant youth in me refused any such tame explanation. For the girl was amazingly pretty. After a glance at it I put the crumpled paper in my pocketbook. In that crowded car, hanging to a strap, I could make nothing of it.

A long arm was thrust forward, then, such was the thief's surprise, that he allowed the stolen pocketbook to be removed from his grasp without opposition.

"Doc Peets informs me once when we crosses up with some locoweed over by the Cow Springs, that thar's two or three breeds of this malignant vegetable. He writes down for me the scientific name of the sort we gets ag'inst. Thar she is." And my friend produced from some recess of a gigantic pocketbook a card whereon the learned Peets had written oxytropis Lamberti.

In the office of Hawkins & Hawkins that morning, the senior member of the firm found a man waiting for him. This man was the emissary of his mighty chief, and upon this chief rested the whole structure of a "deal" which was just then looming large on the horizon of Hawkins & Hawkins and in which the oblong bit of paper in Jasper's pocketbook had no part. Mrs.

The American scribbled the name of a Strand hotel on a card, which Theydon disposed in his pocketbook, at the same time producing one of his own cards. "You'll hear from me," he said. "Now, Mr. Handyside, pardon me for the next few minutes. I have to write telegrams." The first was to Forbes, addressed in duplicate to Old Broad Street and Fortescue Square.

Though I watched with fixed eyes I was absolutely unable to follow their movements, but when they had passed the old gentleman I could see from where I sat that his pocketbook was gone. "Did you see that?" I whispered to Eve. She shook her head. "The old gentleman's pocketbook," I groaned; "they've got it!" Eve for a moment sat quite still; she, too, seemed nervous.

"I think that's quite wonderful." She leaned back in her chair and regarded Vane with admiration. "And I see that you're only a Captain. . . . How true it is that the best brains in the Army adorn the lower positions. By the way I must just make a note of your name." She produced a small pocketbook from her bag and opened it.