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Updated: May 26, 2025
"No," said the other, "he is a railroad president." "And why do you think he's the king-bee; is he very rich?" "He is worth about ten million dollars," said Aunt Polly. Helen gazed at her wildly. "Ten million dollars!" she gasped. "Yes," said the other; "about that, probably a little more. Mr. Roberts knows all about his affairs." Helen was staring into her aunt's face.
But I will tell you about one of them, if you like." "The king-bee?" laughed Helen. "Is there a king-bee?" "Yes," said Mrs. Roberts; "there is. At any rate, my husband and I think he is, and we are anxious to see what you think. His name is Gerald Harrison, and he comes from Cincinnati." "Oh, dear," said Helen, "I hate to meet men from the West. He must be a pork-packer, or something horrible."
"Now, take care of yourself, Alf, and come on home. These cool, green mountains are good enough for any man, an' you know what is said about a rollin' stone. So long. I sign myself, with my best respects, "Yours truly, "JASON WRINKLE. "P. S. The same old crowd of jolly loafers make the store headquarters, and they are, if anything, worse 'n when you was the king-bee o' the bunch.
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