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Updated: May 4, 2025
Oh, yes, people will wonder what you have in the hollow of your hand, and sooner or later, they will find that you are carrying three shells and a pea. Get out, Kittymunks. I'm afraid of you too tough for me." Flummers waved Whittlesy into oblivion, and continued: "Old Witherspoon gave up his check for twenty thousand, and there the reward stops, for Mrs.
With my newspaper work and my side speculations I'm kept pretty busy. Joe, where's that fifty?" "Gave it to you a moment ago." "All right. Say, will you fellows be here when I come back?" "Not if we can get out," Whittlesy replied. "Oh, you've bobbed up again, have you? But remember that papa holds you in the hollow of his hand."
"Having no humor himself, he scowls on the the" He scalloped the air, but it failed to bring the right word. "Jim, you'd better confine yourself to the writing of encyclopedias and not meddle with the buzz-saw of of sharp retort." "He appears to have made it that time," said Whittlesy. "Now, Whit, it may behoove some men to speak, but it doesn't behoove you.
He hesitated a moment, pressed his hand to his forehead, cut a fish-hook in the air and resumed his recital: "When I reached Omaha it was snowing. The heavens wore a feathery frown." "He didn't fill," said Whittlesy. Flummers condemned him with a look and continued: "The wind whetted itself to keenness on a bleak knob and came down to shave its unhappy customers."
"He made his flush," said Whittlesy. Flummers did not look at him. "I went immediately to the jail, where one of the rank and file of the Kittymunkses was confined; and say, you ought to have seen the poor, miserable, bug-bitten wretch they stood up in front of me.
"I sometimes feed my dogs on stewed tripe," said Whittlesy, "and the good that it does them teaches me that man is to be judged largely by what he eats." "There is absolutely no use for all this bloody rot," Mortimer declared. "Eating is essential, of course, but I don't see how men can talk for an hour on the subject, and talk foolishly, at that."
Richmond put his hand to his mouth. "At some playful time," said he, "I might seek to confound the wise, but I should never so far forget myself as to make an experiment on you." "Mr. Witherspoon," remarked McGlenn, "we will turn from this rude barbarian and give our attention to Mr. Whittlesy, who knows all about dogs."
But his hands flew off into a double gesture into a gathering motion that invited every one to come into his confidence, and solemnly he pronounced these words: "He made a monkey of me." "I should say he did!" Whittlesy cried. "Oh, you'll hold me in the hollow of your hand, will you?"
He put his finger in the palm of his hand. "You are right there; see? And when I want you, I'm going to shut down, this way." He closed his hand. "And people will wonder what papa's carrying around with him, but you'll know all the time." "My," said Whittlesy, "what a dangerous man this fellow would be if he had nerve!
Flummers looked at Whittlesy and scalloped the forerunner of a withering speech; but, thoughtful enough suddenly to remember that at this solemn time his words and his eyes belonged not to one man, but to the entire company, he withdrew his gaze from Whittlesy, and in his broad look included every one present. "He made a monkey of me.
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