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Updated: June 1, 2025
The up-stairs maid said that Mrs. Hawkins, the mayor's wife, had been trying for a week to hint Dalyrimple out of the house. He left at eleven o'clock in intolerable confusion, asking that his trunk be sent to Mrs. Beebe's boarding-house. Dalyrimple was twenty-three and he had never worked.
But that doesn't mean you're foolish. Mr. Dalyrimple, what I've got to say won't take long. I'm going to make you a proposition. To begin at the beginning, I've been watching you ever since last Fourth of July when you made that speech in response to the loving-cup." Dalyrimple murmured disparagingly, but Fraser waved him to silence. "It was a speech I've remembered.
Ideas half forgotten, chaoticly perceived and assimilated, filled his mind. Get on that was the rule of life and that was all. How he did it, didn't matter but to be Hesse or Charley Moore. "I won't!" he cried aloud. The bookkeeper and the stenographers looked up in surprise. "What?" For a second Dalyrimple stared then walked up to the desk. "Here's that data," he said brusquely.
"So," continued Fraser, "when Theron Macy told me you'd started down at his place, I kept watching you, and I followed your record through him. The first month I was afraid for awhile. He told me you were getting restless, too good for your job, hinting around for a raise " Dalyrimple started. " -But he said after that you evidently made up your mind to shut up and stick to it.
During his conversation with Dalyrimple his expression kept starting toward a smile, reached a cheerful optimism, and then receded back to imperturbability. "How do you do, sir?" he laid, holding out his hand. "Sit down. I suppose you're wondering why I wanted you. Sit down." Dalyrimple sat down. "Mr. Dalyrimple, how old are you?" "I'm twenty-three." "You're young.
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