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Updated: September 28, 2025
The place where she's been takin' lessons, eh?" Skeet nods. "Is this romance, or business, then?" says I. "Think I'm a fathead?" says he. "I'm gettin' fifteen for this, and I'm earnin' the money too. It's a regular thing. Last night I was Cousin Harry for an old maid from Washington went to a swell house dance up on Riverside Drive. She came across with twenty for that, and paid for the taxi."
You'd most thought that would have been hint enough for J. Bayard; but he's such a fathead at times, and he's so strong for carryin' through any proposition of his own, that it don't get to him. "But, my dear lady," says he, "such an opportunity! Why, the Twombley-Cranes, you know, are " "Ah, ditch it, J. B.!" I cuts in, and shakes my head menacin'. The lady smiles grateful and lifts one hand.
There was a momentary silence, then: "No, you fathead," said Jimmy Challoner curtly. "To Miss Wyatt a Miss Christine Wyatt; and I'm going to be married the day after to-morrow." "Yes, sir; I'm sure I wish you every happiness, sir. And if I may ask, sir will you still be requiring my services?" Jimmy stared. "Of course I shall," he said blankly.
And indeed he was only an ignorant child, and it was because of his great ignorance that he had escaped from the deadly and delicious kisses of the Queen of the Nixies. Aristotle with all his wisdom might not have done so well. "What do you want, fathead?" George cried, seeing himself defenceless, "why harm me if I have never harmed you?"
'With their rifles grasped in their stiffened hands, mid a ring of the dead and dyin', as some fathead sings. Can you hear them now?" "Very far away." "That little lot will do no good, but I expect their search parties are all over the wood. Well, I was telling you my tale of woe.
"Blazes!" exclaimed the little man, leaping from his bed and beginning to dress in mad haste. "You fathead, you've done a fine thing. Why, you let me believe the fields were salted!" "They were," said Dick, "but the real stones were there all the same!" "But, you loony, I should have known this at once!
"You see, there's no trenches anywhere about here," grumbled the men. "And why are there no trenches?" said a wrongheaded man; "why, it's because they don't care a damn for soldiers' lives." "Fathead!" the corporal interrupted; "what's the good of trenches behind, if there's one in front, fathead!" "Halt!" We saw the Divisional Staff go by in the beam of a searchlight.
Joan Valentine. That was it. The girl at the theater that Freddie used to send me with letters to pretty nearly every evening. Well, she's been and done it, same as I told you all that night she was jolly likely to go and do. She's sticking young Freddie up for his letters, just as he ought to have known she would do if he hadn't been a young fathead.
Returning in the evening hush, I found the answer waiting for me: Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. It doesn't matter whether you understand or not. You just come at once, as I tell you, and for heaven's sake stop this back-chat. Do you think I am made of money that I can afford to send you telegrams every ten minutes. Stop being a fathead and come immediately. Love. Travers.
His guest was Matthew Porter, a mystery man, also, of the Brent Taber type, but a little more clearly defined in that he had a title and a department of government. But far more important to Crane, he outranked Taber. One other point of importance: Matthew Porter was, in the terms even Senator Crane used, "something of a fathead."
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