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Updated: June 9, 2025
Bangs raised his eyes and saw, through the dingy pane, the face of the owner of the hand. The lower portion of the face was in eager motion. "Come in," Mr. Pulcifer was whispering. "Come on in!" Galusha wonderingly entered the office. He had no desire for conversation with its proprietor, but he was curious to know what the latter wanted. "Ah good-afternoon, Mr. Pulcifer," he said.
Pulcifer had become the center of interest in East Wellmouth and its neighborhood. An important figure he always was, particularly in his own estimation, but now the spotlight of publicity which beat upon his ample figure had in its rays the blue tinge of mystery. The question which all Wellmouth was asking was that which Captain Jethro had asked Mr. Bangs: "What is Raish up to now?" And Mr.
Who the devil said anything about my givin' eighteen dollars a share?" "Why, I understood you to say that the ah shares were cheap at that figure, that it was a very low price for them. You did say that, didn't you?" Mr. Pulcifer seemed to find articulation difficult. He blew and sputtered like a stranded porpoise and his face became redder than ever, but he did not answer the question.
But now, with all this stir and talk, there was distinct danger that not only he but others might hear of them. Galusha Bangs and Raish Pulcifer had, just now, one trait in common, both detested the publicity given their dealings in the securities of the Wellmouth Development Company. But, in spite of this detestation, Horatio still seemed anxious to deal in those securities.
I didn't like this one at all, but he talked so much that that I couldn't stay and hear him any longer. He makes me very nervous," he added, apologetically. "I suppose it is my fault, but ah he does, you know." "And do you mean to say that you took this this outrage because Raish Pulcifer talked you into it?" Galusha smiled sadly. "Well, he he talked me into it yes," he admitted.
Bangs clambered from the automobile almost as wearily and stiffly as he had climbed into it. The engine of the Pulcifer car had not stopped running so Raish was not obliged to get out and crank. He took a fresh grip on the steering wheel and looked down upon his late passenger. "Well, good-night, Mr. Bangs," he said. "Good-night ah good-night, Mr. Pulcifer.
Mr. Horatio Pulcifer was on his way home. It was half-past five of a foggy, gray afternoon in early October; it had rained the previous day and a part of the day before that and it looked extremely likely to rain again at any moment. The road between Wellmouth Centre, the village in which Mr.
Another person might have found little encouragement in this, but Primmie apparently found a good deal. "You'll see a way, I'll bet you you will, Mr. Bangs," she declared. "Anybody that's been through the kind of times you have, livin' along with critters that steal the shirt off your back, ain't goin' to let a blowed-up gas balloon like Raish Pulcifer stump you. My savin' soul, no!" Mr.
Of course, that was all er more or less of a joke, you understand, and Eh? What say?" "I said I understood, Mr. Pulcifer." "Yes er yes, yes. Glad you do; I thought you would. Now I tell you what to do: You tell Martha... you tell her... say, what ARE you goin' to tell her?" "Nothing. Good-day, Mr. Pulcifer."
Pulcifer had been spending the afternoon, and East Wellmouth, the community which he honored with his residence, was wet and sloppy; there were little puddles in the hollows of the macadam and the ruts and depressions in the sand on either side were miniature lakes. The groves of pitch pines and the bare, brown fields and knolls dimly seen through the fog looked moist and forsaken and dismal.
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