ou wrote me about. I've come down here to interview him.
Confound him! Who is he?"

"Oh, it's all right now," says I. "There was an old rooster from New
York who was acting too skittish to suit me, but I guess it's all off.
His being a millionaire and a stock-jobber was what scart me fust along.
He's a hundred years old or so; name of Van Wedderburn."

"WHAT?" he says, pinching my arm till I could all but feel his thumb and
finger meet. "What? Stop joking. I'm not funny to-night."

"It's no joke," says I, trying to put my arm together again. "Van
Wedderburn is his name. 'Course you've heard of him. Why! there he is
now."

Sure enough, there was Van, standing like a statue of misery on the
front porch of the main hotel, the light from the winder shining full on
him. Jonesy stared and stared.

"Is that the man?" he says, choking up. "Was HE sweet on Mabel?"

"Sweeter'n a molasses stopper," says I. "But he's going away in a day or
so. You don't need to worry."

He commenced to laugh, and I thought he'd never stop.

"What's the joke?" I asks, after a year or so of this foolishness. "Let
me in, won't you? Thought you wa'n't funny to-night."

He stopped long enough to ask one more question. "Tell me, for the
Lord's sake!" says he. "Did she know who he was?"

"Sartin," says I. "So did every other woman round the place. You'd think
so if--"

He walked off then, laughing himself into a fit. "Good night, old man,"
he says, between spasms. "See you later. No, I don't think I shall worry
much."

If he hadn't been so big I cal'lated I'd have risked a kick. A man hates
to be made a fool of and not know why.

A whole lot of the boarders had gone on the evening train, and at our
house Van Wedderburn was the only one left. He and Mabel and me was the
full crew at the breakfast-table the follering morning. The fruit season
was a quiet one. I done all the talking there was; every time the broker
and the housekeeper looked at each other they turned red.

Finally 'twas "chopped-hay" time, and in comes the waiter with the
tray. And again we had a surprise, just like the one back in July. Percy
wa'n't on hand, and Jonesy was.

But the other surprise wa'n't nothing to this one. The Seabury girl was
mightily set back, but old Van was paralyzed. His eyes and mouth opened
and kept on opening.

"Cereal, sir?" asks Jones, polite as ever.

"Why! why, you--you rascal!" hollers Van Wedderburn. "What are you doing
here?"

"I hav