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What I started to write you about was Hemingway's duplicate whist party which was pulled off last night. I had a bid, and as there was nothing else stirring, I put on that boy's size dress suit of mine, and blew out there. Jim, you know the signs you see on the dummies in front of these little Yiddisher stores, "Take me home for $io.98," or "I used to be $6.21, now I'm yours for $3.39."
The report of Hemingway's rifle was not heard, but a tiny cloud of thin vapor curled from the muzzle of his uplifted weapon. "I think I got one of the pair, sir!" called the sailor, gleefully. "He threw up his hands and pitched backward out of sight."
Vandervelde, who met them in response to Hemingway's cable, knew Emma Campbell at sight, but failed to recognize in the tall, distinguished, very foreign-looking gentleman, the gangling Peter Champneys he had seen married to Nancy Simms. He kept staring at Peter, and the corners of his mouth curled more than usual.
Afterward, Emma spoke of his mother, and of old, familiar things they both remembered. Then he went back to the Quartier feeling as refreshed and rested as if he'd had a swim in the river "over home." At regular intervals he appeared at Mrs. Hemingway's, and kept up his acquaintance with her friends.
It is a pleasant place, the Seine near Poissy. Hemingway let Peter sit in a boat all day, and didn't seem to observe that the line wasn't once drawn in. The river was rippling, the sky bright blue, the wind sweet. All around them were other boats, full of people who appeared to be happy. And Hemingway's silent companionship was strong and kind and serene.
Let me be perfectly plain: This evidence I am speaking of involves you personally. If the papers are put into Judge Hemingway's hands there will be a searching investigation, prompt indictments, criminal proceedings, and all the disgrace that the widest publicity can bring upon the men who are responsible for the present desperate state of affairs."
Nobody except Bud noticed how white the girl was, as the company rising from the table swept her away from him. That night Dr. Hemingway's prayer was fervent with love. The boys were always on his heart, and he called us all by name.
"Then you used these picklocks to open Prescott's locked trunk with?" was Hemingway's next question. "'Fraid I did," leered Tip. "What time of the day did you get into the Prescott flat?" "'Bout ten o'clock, morning of the same day ye went through Prescott's trunk an' found the goods there."
"I feel as if I were visiting my grandmother's house," he confided to a certain lady next whom he was seated at one of Mrs. Hemingway's small dinners. "And where is your mother's house?" wondered the lady, who found herself attracted to him. "Over home in Riverton," said Peter Champneys.
The second day she remarked to Jack Hemingway, her husband, that Loretta was so innocent a young thing that were it not for her sweet guilelessness she would be positively stupid. In proof of which, Mrs. Hemingway told her husband several things that made him chuckle. By the third day Mrs. Hemingway's plan had taken recognizable form. Then it was that she composed a letter.
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