XXIV
I am now going back to my saying that a city has all kinds of goings-on; both sad and gay. So, as His Honor sat on his porch on a warm spring day, a paragraph in Branton Hills’ “Post” brought forth such a vigorous “Huh!” that Lady Gadsby was curious, asking:—
“What is it?”
So Gadsby said:— “What do you think of this? It says:— ‘In a wild swaying dash down Broadway last night at midnight, past-Councilman Antor’s car hit a hydrant, killing him and Madam Antor instantly. Highway Patrolman Harry Grant, who was chasing that car in from our suburbs, says both horribly drunk, Antor grazing four cars, Madam shouting and singing wildly, with Grant arriving too tardily to ward off that final crash.”
Now Lady Gadsby was, first of all, a woman; and so got up quickly, saying:—
“Oh!! I must go down to poor young Mary, right off!” and Gadsby sat tapping his foot, saying:—
“So Antor’s pantry probably still holds that stuff. Too bad. But, oh, that darling Mary! Just
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