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Updated: June 28, 2025
"Wall Street can stand crashes better than it could then. It's got a robuster constitution." "Yes; but " "Speaking of constitutions," Mr. Grisben intervened: "Frank, are you taking care of yourself?" A flush rose to young Rainer's cheeks. "Why, of course! Isn't that what I'm here for?" "You're here about three days in the month, aren't you?
A look of apprehension overshadowed Rainer's gaiety. "Oh, come I say! ... What would YOU do?" he stammered. "Pack up and jump on the first train." Mr. Grisben leaned forward and laid a firm hand on the young man's arm "Look here: my nephew Jim Grisben is out there ranching on a big scale. He'll take you in and be glad to have you.
"Certainly. Come in, Mr. Faxon. If you won't think it a liberty " Mr. Grisben, who sat opposite his host, turned his head toward the door. "Of course Mr. Faxon's an American citizen?" Frank Rainer laughed. "That's all right!... Oh, no, not one of your pin-pointed pens, Uncle Jack! Haven't you got a quill somewhere?" Mr.
Rainer, having signed, was about to push the paper across the table to Mr. Balch; but the latter, again raising his hand, said in his sad imprisoned voice: "The seal ?" "Oh, does there have to be a seal?" Faxon, looking over Mr. Grisben at John Lavington, saw a faint frown between his impassive eyes. "Really, Frank!" He seemed, Faxon thought, slightly irritated by his nephew's frivolity.
"Go at once," he added, as if a closer look at the youth's face had impressed on him the need of backing up his friend. Young Rainer had turned ashy-pale. He tried to stiffen his mouth into a smile. "Do I look as bad as all that?" Mr. Grisben was helping himself to terrapin. "You look like the day after an earthquake," he said.
"Who's got a seal?" Frank Rainer continued, glancing about the table. "There doesn't seem to be one here." Mr. Grisben interposed. "A wafer will do. Lavington, you have a wafer?" Mr. Lavington had recovered his serenity. "There must be some in one of the drawers. But I'm ashamed to say I don't know where my secretary keeps these things.
Grisben was saying, with an unexpected incisiveness of tone. Mr. Lavington laid down his spoon and smiled interrogatively. "Oh, facts what are facts! Just the way a thing happens to look at a given minute." "You haven't heard anything from town?" Mr. Grisben persisted. "Not a syllable. So you see ... Balch, a little more of that petite marmite. Mr. Faxon ... between Frank and Mr. Grisben, please."
Lavington's chair was not present, and no seat awaited him. When the young men entered, Mr. Grisben was speaking, and his host, who faced the door, sat looking down at his untouched soup-plate and turning the spoon about in his small dry hand. "It's pretty late to call them rumours they were devilish close to facts when we left town this morning," Mr.
And the rest of the time it's crowded restaurants and hot ballrooms in town. I thought you were to be shipped off to New Mexico?" "Oh, I've got a new man who says that's rot." "Well, you don't look as if your new man were right," said Mr. Grisben bluntly. Faxon saw the lad's color fade, and the rings of shadow deepen under his gay eyes.
Grisben, please." The dinner progressed through a series of complicated courses, ceremoniously dispensed by a prelatical butler attended by three tall footmen, and it was evident that Mr. Lavington took a certain satisfaction in the pageant. That, Faxon reflected, was probably the joint in his armour that and the flowers.
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