"Are you crazy, or am I?" he queried.
"Yes, sir; delirious. It's this way, sir; I've changed my mind,
too."
"Oh--! You have?"
"I've met the dearest, sweetest"--O'Reilly choked, then began
again--"the dearest, loveliest--"
"Never mind the bird-calls--don't coo! I get enough of that at
home. Don't tell me she's dearer and sweeter than Elsa. Another
girl! Well, I'll be damned! Young man, you're a fool."
"Yes, sir."
Slightly mollified by this ready acknowledgment, Mr. Carter
grunted with relief. "Humph! It turned out better than I thought.
Why, I--I was positively terrified when you walked in. And to
think you didn't need any sympathy!"
"I do need that job, though. It will enable me to get married."
"Nonsense! Better wait. I don't believe in early engagements."
"Oh yes, you do."
"Well, that depends. But, say--you're a pretty nervy youth to turn
down my daughter and then hold me up for a job, all in the same
breath. Here! Don't dance on my rug. I ought to be offended, and I
am, but--Get out while I telephone Elsa, so she can dance, too."
O'Reilly spent that evening in writing a long letter to Rosa
Varona. During the next few days his high spirits proved a trial
and an affront to Mr. Slack, who, now that his employer had
departed for the West, had assumed a subdued and gloomy dignity to
match the somber responsibilities of his position.
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