his accent was not pleasant--sort
of grizzled, as it were. Well, gentlemen, he said that _his_ prince, as
he called him, the grand duke, wanted some rubies; they were intended
for a present; and, though my visitor did not imply anything either by
word or gesture, I suspected at once that they were for a lady. The
grand duke at that time had been here a fortnight, and it was
said--However, there is no use in going into that. So I showed him a
few; but, if you will believe me, he wanted enough to make a tiara. I
told him that a tiara of stones of that quality would come anywhere from
sixty to eighty thousand dollars. If I had said a peck of groats he
could not have appeared more indifferent. 'It is a great deal of money,'
I said. He smiled a little at that, as though he were thinking, 'Poor
devil of an American, it may seem a great deal of money to you, but to a
grand duke--!' Then I brought out all I had. He looked them over with
the pincers very carefully, and asked how much I valued them at. I told
him a hundred and ten thousand dollars. He didn't turn a hair."

"Was he bald?" Jones asked.

"No, sir, he was not; and your jest is ill-timed. Gentlemen, I appeal to
you. I insist on Mr. Jones's attention--"

"Why, the man is crazy," Jones mused. "What does he mean by saying that
my jest is ill-timed? But why does he insist on my attention? He's
drunk--that's what he is; he's drunk and quarrelsome. Well, let him be.
What do I care?" And Alphabet Jones looked complacently at his white
waistcoat and then over at his excitable _vis-a-vis_. Mr. Fairbanks was
a little man of the Cruikshank pattern, very red and rotund, and as he
talked he gesticulated.

"So I said to him, 'There's been a corner in rubies, but it broke, and
that is the reason why I can give them at that price.' He didn't know
what a corner was, and when I explained he took a note-book out of his
pocket and wrote something in it. 'I am making a collection of
Americanisms for the Czarina,' he said. 'By the way,' he added, 'what is
a Sam Ward!' I told him. He laughed, and put it down--"

"His throat?"

Mr. Fairbanks glanced at Jones with unconcealed irritation: "Dr.
Hammond, sir, says that punning is a form of paresis."

"Be careful about that epsilon; it's short."

"Well, Mr. Jones, you ought to know how to pronounce the word better
than I, for you have the disease and I haven't. Gentlemen, I insist--"

But Jones had begun to muse again. "That fat little