The clerk who had before acted as usher came in and
handed him a slip of paper with a name written on
it. M. Grandissime folded it twice, gazed out
the window, and finally nodded. The clerk disappeared,
and Joseph Frowenfeld paused an instant in the door
and then advanced, with a buoyant good-morning.
“Good-morning,” responded M. Grandissime.
He smiled and extended his hand, yet there was a mechanical
and preoccupied air that was not what Joseph felt
justified in expecting.
“How can I serve you, Mr. Frhowenfeld?”
asked the merchant, glancing through into the counting-room.
His coldness was almost all in Joseph’s imagination,
but to the apothecary it seemed such that he was nearly
induced to walk away without answering. However,
he replied:
“A young man whom I have employed refers to
you to recommend him.”
“Yes, sir? Prhay, who is that?”
“Your cousin, I believe, Mr. Raoul Innerarity.”
M. Grandissime gave a low, short laugh, and took two
steps toward his desk.
“Rhaoul? Oh yes, I rhecommend Rhaoul to
you. As an assistant in yo’ sto’?—the
best man you could find.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Joseph, coldly.
“Good-morning!” he added turning to go.
“Mr. Frhowenfeld,” said the other, “do
you evva rhide?”
“I used to ride,” replied the apothecary,
turning, hat in hand, and wondering what such a question
could mean.
“If I send a saddle-hoss to yo’ do’
on day aftah to-morrhow evening at fo’ o’clock,
will you rhide out with me for-h about a hour-h and
a half—just for a little pleasu’e?”
Joseph was yet more astonished than before. He
hesitated, accepted the invitation, and once more
said good-morning.
DOCTOR KEENE RECOVERS HIS BULLET
It early attracted the apothecary’s notice,
in observing the civilization around him, that it
kept the flimsy false bottoms in its social errors
only by incessant reiteration. As he re-entered
the shop, dissatisfied with himself for accepting
M. Grandissime’s invitation to ride, he knew
by the fervent words which he overheard from the lips
of his employee that the f.m.c. had been making one
of his reconnoisances, and possibly had ventured in
to inquire for his tenant.
“I t’ink, me, dat hanny w’ite man
is a gen’leman; but I don’t care if a
man are good like a h-angel, if ’e har not pu’e
w’ite ’ow can ’e be a gen’leman?”
Raoul’s words were addressed to a man who, as
he rose up and handed Frowenfeld a note, ratified
the Creole’s sentiment by a spurt of tobacco
juice and an affirmative “Hm-m.”
The note was a lead-pencil scrawl, without date.
DEAR JOE: Come
and see me some time this evening.
I am on my back in bed.
Want your help in a little
matter. Yours,
Keene.
I have found out who
—— ——”
