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As the exercises continued, she became rather more accustomed to her prominent seat, and, inspired by Dorcas Morehouse's austere countenance in the front row below her, she even turned once and looked down the squirming row beside her, shaking her head gravely at Perdita, who was showing signs of uprising.
Hogarty turned it over. "Introducing the Pilgrim," ran the caption in the cramped handwriting of Chub Morehouse's stubby fingers. And, beneath, that succinct sentence which was not so cryptic after all: "Some of them may have science, and some of them may have speed, but after all it's the man who can take punishment who gets the final decision. Call me up, if this ever comes to hand."
She strolled to the window, sniffed at Trevvy Morehouse's roses, helped herself to a cigarette and sat down. Hermia was not inartistic and she resented the imputation. It was only that her art and Olga's differed by the breadth of an ocean. "For me, when a man becomes mystified he ceases to be useful," laughed Hermia. "Pouf! my dear," said the Countess with a wave of her cigarette.
And now, when I began to explain how I inquired about you at the Valmont, as if it was from Morehouse, you didn't " "I felt there could be no explanation I'd care to hear," Angela finished for him. "I beg your pardon! Still I don't see why you should take Mr. Morehouse's responsibilities on your shoulders for my sake." "No, you'll never see that," Nick sighed.
Morehouse's letter, it must be waiting for you. I reckon it ought to have arrived last night or this morning. And if you find he recommends me as a trustworthy man, will you think the plan over, before you say no?" "You take my breath away! But ye-es. I'll think it over. I suppose one really can do things in America one wouldn't do anywhere else?"
"Rather neat and tasty, if I do say it myself. 'Introducing The Pilgrim! Hum-m-m. You can't quite appreciate it of course, but oh, Flash, I wish you could have seen that big boy standing there in the door of that little backwoods tavern, just as I saw him, about a week ago! Why, he he was " "He's come!" Hogarty cut in briefly. Morehouse's chin dropped. He sat with mouth agape. "Huh?" he grunted.
He groped awkwardly for words while he stared again at the bit of silk in his hand, before his searching fingers found the thick, crisp packet that had lain with it in his pocket. "The Pilgrim's share of the receipts amounted to $12,000," had been the tale of Morehouse's succinct last paragraph.
Ever since the hour which followed the going to press of the afternoon edition of the paper the huge room, with its littered floor and flat-topped tables, had been deserted, so still that the buzzing of a blue-bottle fly against the window pane at Morehouse's side seemed irritatingly loud by contrast.
"He's he's come where?" Where his facetiousness had failed him Morehouse's round-eyed astonishment, a little tinged with panic, was more than successful. Hogarty permitted himself to smile a trifle his queer, strained smile. "He is here," he repeated gravely, and the words were couched in his choicest accents. "He came in, perhaps, an hour ago.
"How thim clerks do loike to be talkin'! Me proceed to collect two dollars and twinty-foive cints off Misther Morehouse! I wonder do thim clerks know Misther Morehouse? I'll git it! Oh, yes! 'Misther Morehouse, two an' a quarter, plaze. 'Cert'nly, me dear frind Flannery. Delighted! Not!" Flannery drove the express wagon to Mr. Morehouse's door. Mr. Morehouse answered the bell.
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