city's wagons. True, his hands were stiff and blistered, but all that would respond to the oil of affluence. There was no time to lose. She had said in the postscript that he would have to hurry.
Two hours later he burst excitedly into the bookshop of J. Bramble and exclaimed:
"And now, my dear, good friend, I shall soon be able to return to you the various amounts you have advanced me from time to time, out of the goodness of your heart, and I shall—what do I say?—blow you off to a banquet that even now, in contemplation, makes my own mouth water,—and I shall—"
"Bless my soul," gasped Mr. Bramble. "Would you mind saying all of it in English? What is the excitement? Just a moment, please." The latter to a mild-looking gentleman who was poising a book in one hand and inquiring the price with the uplifting of his eyebrows.
De Bosky rapped three or four times on the violin case tucked under his arm.
"After all the years and all the money I spent in mastering this— But, you are busy, my good friend. Pray forgive the interruption—"
"What has happened?" demanded Mr. Bramble, uneasily.
"I have fallen into a fortune. Twenty-five dollars a week,—so!" he said whimsically. "Also I shall restore the five dollars that Trotter forced me to take,—and the odd amounts M. Mirabeau has— Yes, yes, my friend, I am radiant. I am to lead the new orchestra at Spangler's café. I have concluded negotiations with—ah, how quickly it was done! And I
