Average Jones
S >>
Samuel Hopkins Adams >> Average Jones
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 | 17
"Good-by." It was the merest whisper from behind the door. But it
echoed in the tones of a thousand golden hopes and dismal fears in
the whirling brain of Average Jones as he walked back to his
offices.
Two days later he sat at his desk, in a murk of woe. Nor word nor
sign had come to him from Miss Sylvia Graham. He frowned heavily as
Simpson entered the inner sanctum with the usual packet of
clippings.
"Leave them," he ordered.
"Yes, sir." The confidential clerk lingered, looking uncomfortable.
"Anything from yesterday's lot, sir?"
"Haven't looked them over yet."
"Or day before's?"
"Haven't taken those up either."
"Pardon me, Mr. Jones., but--are you ill, sir?"
"No," snapped Average Jones.
"Ramson is inquiring whether he shall ship more beetles. I see in
the paper that judge Ackroyd has sailed for Europe on six hours'
notice, so I suppose you won't want any more?"
Average Jones mentioned a destination for Rawson's beetles deeper
than they had, ever digged for prey.
"Yes, Sir," assented Simpson. "But if I might suggest, there's a
very interesting advertisement in yesterday's paper repeated this
morn--"
"I don't want to see it."
"No, Sir. But--but still--it--it seems to have a strange reference
to the burial of the million-dollar dog, and an invitation that I
thought--"
"Where is it? Give it to me!" For once in his life, high pressure
of excitement had blotted out Average Jones' drawl. His employee
thrust into his hand this announcement from the Banner of that
morning:
DIED-At 100 West 26th Street, Sept. 14,
Peter Paul, a dog, for many years the faithful
and fond companion of the late Amelia Van
Haltern. Burial in accordance with the wish
and will of Mrs. Van Haltern, at the family estate,
Schuylkill, Sept. 17, at o'clock. His friend, Don
Quixote, is especially bidden to come, if he will.
Average Jones leaped to his feet. "My parable," he cried. "Don
Quixote and the damsel in distress. Where's my hat? Where's the
time-table? Get a cab! Simpson, you idiot, why didn't you make me
read this before, confound you! I mean God bless you. Your
salary's doubled from to-day. I'm off."
"Yes, Sir," said the bewildered Simpson, "but about Ramson's
beetles?"
"Tell him, to turn 'em out to pasture and keep 'em as long as they
live, at my expense," called back Average Jones as the door slammed
behind him.
Miss Sylvia Graham looked down upon a slender finger ornamented with
the oddest and the most appropriate of engagement rings, a scarab
beetle red-banded with three deep-hued rubies.
"But, Average," she said, and the golden laughter flickered again in
the brown depths of her eyes, "not even you could expect a girl to
accept a man through a keyhole."
"I suppose not," said Average Jones with a sigh of profoundest
content. "Some are for privacy in these matters; others for
publicity. But I suppose I'm the first man in history who ever got
his heart's answer in an advertisement."
THE END
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 | 17