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Updated: June 23, 2025
"For one," said Matthew Maltboy, improving the opportunity to put in a word, "I should not be surprised to learn that you had a hundred." Miss Whedell appreciated the delicate compliment, and beamed fascination upon him. "It has been a horrid, dreary winter, has it not, Mr. Maltboy?" said she, in a tone that invited sympathy and confidence. Mr.
Whedell reclined in his chair, positively enjoying the spectacle, which was all the more entertaining because the common wrath was now diverted from him. Mrs. Chiffield wept behind her handkerchief. Her bonnet was knocked on one side, and the flowers were seriously disarranged, indicating a real case of distress. Sauve qui peut was now the motto among all the small creditors.
"Done for!" and kindred expressions, arose from all sides. The spokesman said: "We ha'n't got no time to joke, Mr. Whedell. We have only to remark, now, that the best thing for you to do is to give up your furniture, without the trouble and expense of a lot of lawsuits." "You are perfectly welcome to the whole of it, my good friends," said Mr. Whedell. "The, deuce they are!" cried Quigg.
The Siamese twins of the soul passed from the church amid the sneers, criticisms, and suppressed laughter of the spectators who united in pronouncing the ceremony a shabby affair, not worth looking at and, entering a carriage with Mr. Whedell, were driven to the New Jersey Railroad Depot furiously, as if they had been guilty of some crime against society. At the depot, Mr.
Chiffield, in a hollow voice. "That's a good joke!" Mr. Whedell grinned a ghastly smile, as if he did not precisely see the point of the jest. "Joke or no joke," said he, "I must look to you for some money to put off the infernal creditors, who have begun to flock into the house. There's the bell. Hang me, if it isn't another one!
Quigg felt that he was losing ground on these side issues. "Well, Whedell, we must have a settlement to day. You owe me one hundred and fifty dollars. Turn over all your furniture to me, and we'll call it square." Mrs. Chiffield doubled her sobs anew. But Mr. Whedell said, "Very good. Take everything, I shall want nothing where I am going."
Pulls of a startling description had come so often, the previous ten minutes, that Mr. Whedell had quite ceased to notice them. But this long and strong pull caused him to start, and remark, "It must be Quigg." It was Quigg, who had come to make his last appeal. He was by far the heaviest creditor.
Chiffield bowed his gracious acknowledgment of the handsome historical allusion. "How is Erie, Mr. Chiffield?" "Looking up." "Sure of it?" "A leading Wall-street man told me, this afternoon, it would advance three per cent. this week. I have a slight interest in watching it," said Mr. Chiffield, smiling. "So have I," said Mr. Whedell, smiling also.
The one before the last was very snowy in the forenoon, with hail in the afternoon; and the one before that was so mild, that I found an overcoat really uncomfortable. The one before " "Excuse me for the interruption," said Mrs. Frump, suddenly, "but I can't help saying how much Mr. Maltboy looks like Dr. Warts. Doesn't he, Clemmy?" "Like Dr. Warts!" exclaimed Miss Whedell. "Who's he?"
Frump, having detected in her general appearance certain indications of what he called "a sensible woman." Mr. Quigg, feeling that he was one too many, took a "seat equally removed from the two ladies, and commenced playing soft tunes on his hat, and looking vacantly about the room. "I had begun to wonder, Mr. Maltboy," said Miss Whedell, "what makes our friends so backward to-day.
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