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"He has none of the little vices. He is a burglar and safe-blower, and a pal of mine." "Oh, Mary Ann!" said they. "Must you always adorn every statement with your alleged humor?" It came to pass that at eight in the evening a calm, smooth, brilliant, affable man sat at Vuyning's right hand during dinner.
Now, to write of a man's haberdashery is a worse thing than to write a historical novel "around" Paul Jones, or to pen a testimonial to a hay-fever cure. Therefore, let it be known that the description of Vuyning's apparel is germane to the movements of the story, and not to make room for the new fall stock of goods.
Even Broadway that morning was a discord in Vuyning's ears; and in his eyes it paralleled for a few dreamy, dreary minutes a certain howling, scorching, seething, malodorous slice of street that he remembered in Morocco.
He laid Vuyning's pocketbook and watch the Vuyning 100-year-old family watch on the table. "Man," said Vuyning, revelling, "did you ever hear the tale Kirk tells about the six-pound trout and the old fisherman?" "Seems not," said Emerson, politely. "I'd like to." "But you won't," said Vuyning. "I've heard it scores of times. That's why I won't tell you.
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