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Updated: June 11, 2025
I have sold the paper at a profit, and it has made money almost from the first. Do as I tell you. Take this check." The merchant took the check, and it shook in his hand. DeGolyer now addressed Mrs. Witherspoon. "You have indeed been a mother to me. No gentler being ever lived, and till the day of my death I shall remember you with affection." "Oh, this is all so strange!" she cried, weeping.
DeGolyer got into a hack and was rapidly driven to the restaurant. Young Witherspoon had completed his work and was in the kitchen, sitting on a box with a dirty-looking bundle lying beside him. "Come, Henry," DeGolyer said, taking his arm. "No; not Henry Hank. Henry's dead." "Come, my boy." Witherspoon looked up, and closing his eyes, pressed the tips of his fingers against them. "My boy."
"Well, here we are again," some one said. DeGolyer looked round and recognized the railroad man who had charge of the excursion. "I'm glad I met you," DeGolyer replied. "It saves hunting you up." "Why, what's the matter? Are you sick?" "No, I'm all right, but something has occurred that compels me to return at once to Chicago." "Nothing serious, I hope." "No, but it demands my immediate return.
Every day George Witherspoon would ask: "Well, how's your peculiar friend getting along?" And one evening, when he made this inquiry, DeGolyer answered: "He is so much pleased that he doesn't think it will take him quite three months to decide." "Good enough, but why doesn't he decide now?" "Because it would hardly be in keeping with his peculiar methods.
"Yes, within a week," DeGolyer replied. "I should think that he is more in need of apartments in an asylum than of a newspaper; but if he thinks he knows his business, all right; we have nothing to say. What has he agreed to give for the paper?" "No price has been fixed, but there'll be no trouble about that." "I hope not."
The man snatched the rag and began again to scrub the floor. DeGolyer took hold of his arm. "Get up," he commanded, and the man obeyed as if frightened. "Don't you know me?" "No." "Don't you remember Hank?" "I'm Hank," the man answered. "No," said DeGolyer, with a sob, "you are Henry, and I am Hank." "No, Henry's dead I'm Hank." He dropped on his knees again and began to scrub the floor.
DeGolyer had now reached that time of life when a wise man begins strongly to suspect that the past is but a future stripped of its delusions. He was a man of more than ordinary appearance; indeed, people who knew him, and who believed that size grants the same advantages to all vocations, wondered why he was not more successful.
And in the main the uncle was agreeable and courteous, but there were times when he flew out of his orbit of goodfellowship. Once he came puffing into the room where DeGolyer was writing, and blusteringly flounced upon a sofa. He remained quiet for a few moments, and then he blew so strong a spout of annoyance that DeGolyer turned to him and asked: "Has anything gone wrong?"
How can you refuse me when you know that I think more of you than I do of anybody? This is no boy's prank I'm a man now. Will you?" "Henry," said DeGolyer, "this is merely a feverish notion that has come out of your derangement. Put it by, and after a while we will laugh at it. Is the cloth hot again?" "Yes." "I'll change it."
It is a woman's duty to be pleasing; and her advantage, too, for when she ceases to please she loses many of her privileges." DeGolyer went to the window, took the rose, brought it to her and said: "Put this in your hair." She looked up as she took the rose; their eyes met and for a moment they lived in the promise of a delirious bliss. She looked down as she was putting the flower in her hair.
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