sician, he pooh-hooed Mr. Bramble's calamitous regard for the union, and he wound up by inviting de Bosky to stop for lunch with him.
"No, no,—impossible," exclaimed de Bosky, feeling in his waistcoat pocket absent-mindedly, and then glancing at a number of M. Mirabeau's clocks in rotation; "no, I have not the time. Your admirable clocks urge me to be off. See! I am to recover the overcoat of my excellent friend, the safe-blower. This letter,—see! Mrs. Moses Jacobs. She tells me to come and take it away with me. Am I not the lucky dog,—no, no! I mean am I not the lucky star? I must be off. She may change her mind. She—"
"Mon dieu! I'd let her change it if I were you," cried M. Mirabeau. "I call it the height of misfortune to possess a fur coat on a day like this. One might as well rejoice over a linen coat in mid-winter. You are excited! Calm yourself. A bit of cold tongue, and a salad, and—"
"Au revoir!" sang out de Bosky from the top of the steps. "And remember! I shall repay you within the fortnight, monsieur. I promise! Ah, it is a beautiful, a glorious day!"
The old Frenchman dashed to the landing and called down after his speeding guest:
"Fetch the coat with you to luncheon. I shall order some moth-balls, and after we've stuffed it full of them, we'll put the poor thing away for a long, long siesta. It shall be like the anaconda. I have a fine cedar chest—"
But Mr. Bramble was speaking from the bottom of the steps.
