Delamere," then, as
their acquaintance advanced, as "Delamere." He had now reached the
abbreviated Christian name stage of familiarity. There was no lower
depth to which Tom could sink, unless McBane should invent a nickname by
which to address him. He did not like McBane's manner,--it was
characterized by a veiled insolence which was exceedingly offensive. He
would go over to the club and try his luck with some honest
player,--perhaps something might turn up to relieve him from his
embarrassment.
He put his hand in his pocket mechanically,--and found it empty! In the
present state of his credit, he could hardly play without money.
A thought struck him. Leaving the hotel, he hastened home, where he
found Sandy dusting his famous suit of clothes on the back piazza. Mr.
Delamere was not at home, having departed for Belleview about two
o'clock, leaving Sandy to follow him in the morning.
"Hello, Sandy," exclaimed Tom, with an assumed jocularity which he was
very far from feeling, "what are you doing with those gorgeous
garments?"
"I'm a-dustin' of 'em, Mistuh Tom, dat's w'at I'm a-doin'. Dere's
somethin' wrong 'bout dese clo's er mine--I don' never seem ter be able
ter keep 'em clean no mo'. Ef I b'lieved in dem ole-timey sayin's, I'd
'low dere wuz a witch come here eve'y night an' tuk 'em out an' wo' 'em,
er tuk me out an' rid me in 'em. Dere wuz somethin' wrong 'bout dat
cakewalk business, too, dat I ain' never unde'stood an' don' know how
ter 'count fer, 'less dere wuz some kin' er dev'lishness goin' on dat
don' show on de su'face.
Pages:
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174