one of those bundles of books home and find that her name is, probably, Jessica Pomeroy, and that there is a ten thousand dollar bill in one of those books which, of course, it will be up to your respected—so to speak—employer to return if he can find the girl, thus making it the basis for a firm and lasting—er—friendship, and lastly, when some visitor oozes in during the wee sma’ hours, perfumes your palpitating bean with chloroform and other pleasing odors, and abstracts aforesaid books, would you say that Life was beginning to be worth living once more?”
“Yes, sir. Another cup of coffee, sir?” replied Eddie, brightly.
“Yes. And Eddie, the name of Jessica Pomeroy is beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. A very tasteful name for a young female person, if I may say so, sir,” came back Eddie. Val looked at him thoughtfully, speculatively.
“Have you ever been in love, Eddie?” he asked at length.
“No, sir. The reason I look as I do, sir, is because I never did quite get all that gas out of my system—you know, that time when we took Neuve Ste. Jean. I⸺”
“Old vaudeville stuff, Eddie. What do you know of the more delicate passions anyway. I want you to drive for me this morning—order the car, will you. I’ll be starting right after breakfast.”
Val attacked another slice of toast with great gusto. Things were beginning to look up—midnight attacks, beautiful girls, ten thousand dollar bills, mystery, love, everything. Perhaps life was not such a dull proposition after all. Who knows, maybe to-day he would be lucky enough to have some one make an attack on
