“She cud make some ’un more happier’n wot he is,” said Darius. “An’ you’d oughter git marrit, Mist’ San’s, ’cause some ’un cud make yer more happier’n wot y’are.”
I looked at him aghast, an axiom from my half-forgotten “Euclid’s Elements” buzzing in my brain: — “Things which are equal to the same thing are equal to each other.” Miss Berrith was equal to matrimony, I was equal to matrimony. Were Miss Berrith and I —
Good gracious! what an infant terrible he was, that boy, Darius Doane!
“Darius,” said I severely, “the path needs raking.”
“I’ll comb ut fer yer in er jiff. Mist’ San’s,” said he, and, five minutes later, through the window of my den, my ears were saluted by the commingled sounds of a rake on gravel and Darius on the mouth-organ. He was committing melodicide upon the undeservedly popular air of “A Hot Time in the Old Town To-night,” and as the mouth-organ wheezed
