me, excited as a mouse at a cat show, and says he:

"Ah, ha! what did I tell you? I've got one!"

"I see you have," says I. "Want me to send for the doctor?"

"Stop your foolishing," he says. "I mean I've got a millionaire. He's
coming to-night, too. One of the biggest big-bugs there is in New York.
Ah, ha! what did I tell you?"

He was fairly boiling over with gloat, but from between the bubbles I
managed to find out that the new boarder was a big banker from New
York, name of Van Wedderburn, with a barrel of cash and a hogshead of
dyspepsy. He was a Wall Street "bear," and a steady diet of lamb with
mint sass had fetched him to where the doctors said 'twas lay off for
two months or be laid out for keeps.

"And I've fixed it that he's to stop at your house, Barzilla," crows
Jonadab. "And when he sees Mabel--well, you know what she's done to the
other men folks," he says.

"Humph!" says I, "maybe he's got dyspepsy of the heart along with the
other kind. She might disagree with him. What makes you so cock sartin?"

"'Cause he's a widower," he says. "Them's the softest kind."

"Well, you ought to know," I told him. "You're one yourself. But,
from what I've heard, soft things are scarce in Wall Street. Bet you
seventy-five cents to a quarter it don't work."

He wouldn't take me, having scruples against betting--except when he
had the answer in his pocket. But he went away cackling joyful, and that
night Van Wedderburn arrived.

Van was a substantial-looking old relic, built on the lines of the
Boston State House, broad in the beam and with a shiny dome on top. But
he could qualify for the nervous dyspepsy class all right, judging
by his language to the depot-wagon driver. When he got through making
remarks because one of his trunks had been forgot, that driver's
quotation, according to Peter T., had "dropped to thirty cents, with a
second assessment called." I jedged the meals at our table would be as
agreeable as a dog-fight.

However, 'twas up to me, and I towed him in and made him acquainted with
Mabel. She wa'n't enthusiastic--having heard some of the driver sermon,
I cal'late--until I mentioned his name. Then she gave a little gasp
like. When Van had gone up to his rooms, puffing like a donkey-engyne
and growling 'cause there wa'n't no elevators, she took me by the arm
and says she:

"WHAT did you say his name was, Mr. Wingate?"

"Van Wedderburn," says I. "The New York millionaire one."

"Not of Van