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Updated: May 26, 2025
Pennold's shaking voice rose to a breaking cry, but again his wife silenced him. "Suppose we did write such a letter an' we ain't admittin' we did, for a minute what's Blaine got on us?" demanded Mame, coolly. "It's no crime, as I ever heard, to write a letter any way you want to. Who are you, young man? You're no bank clerk!" "He's a 'tec, of course! Shut up your fool mouth, Mame.
Perhaps the fact that Alfred Hicks' real name was Guy Morrow and that a letter received early that morning from Henry Blaine's office, giving Pennold's address and a single line of instruction may have had much to do with his matutinal visit.
Father was busier than ever in the shop, and, Charley Pennold's orders must have been very profitable, for we've had more money in the last two years than ever before, that I can remember.
Do you think I'm goin' lookin' for a long-lost son? The life must be gettin' you at last, Wally! Your head ain't what it used to be." But Mrs. Pennold's vaunted astuteness gained her little knowledge which could be of value to her in their late acquaintance. Mrs.
It didn't occur to me for some time after Miss Brunell let that slip, that the name is the same as that of the precious pair of old crooks over in Brooklyn, the ones Suraci and I traced Brunell by." "Charley Pennold!" Blaine repeated thoughtfully. "I hadn't thought of him. He's old Walter Pennold's nephew. The boy was running straight the last I heard of him, but you never can tell.
The next morning Alfred Hicks was a little late in getting to his work at the bank so late, in fact, that he had only time to wave a cordial greeting to his new friends in their cages as he passed. He paused, however, that evening, with a pot of flowering bloom for Mrs. Pennold's dingy, not over-clean window-sill, and a packet of tobacco which he shared generously with his host.
It was not unusual, therefore, that the new clerk, Alfred Hicks, should have heard of it, but it was unusual that he should find it expedient to make a detour on his way to work the next morning which would take him to the gate of Walter Pennold's modest home.
He seemed real excited, considerin' he had nothin' to worry about, but I took his word for it, an' beat it. That's the last I seen of him." "Did you send your nephew to him?" "Me?" Pennold's tones quickened in surprise. "I ain't seen him in a long while, an' I don't believe he even remembers old Jimmy; he was only a kid when Jimmy went up the river.
He's a disgrace; that's what Charley is a plain disgrace." Pennold's voice rang out in highly virtuous indignation. Morrow forbore to smile at the oblique moral viewpoint of the old crook. "What does he look like?" he asked. "Short and slim, isn't he, with a small dark mustache?" "That's him!" ejaculated Pennold disgustedly. "Dresses like a dude, an' chases after a bunch of skirts!
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