Tom and he won the hand. He glanced back at Nelly with awe,
then clutched his new hand, fearfully, dizzily, staring at it as
though it might conceal one of those malevolent deceivers of
which Nelly had just warned him--a left bower.
"Good! Spades--see," said Nelly.
Fifteen minutes later Mr. Wrenn felt that Tom was hoping he
would lead a club. He played one, and the whole table said:
"That's right. Fine!"
On his shoulder he felt a light tap, and he blushed like a
sunset as he peeped back at Nelly.
Mr. Wrenn, the society light, was Our Mr. Wrenn of the Souvenir
Company all this time. Indeed, at present he intended to keep
on taking The Job seriously until that most mistily distant time,
which we all await, "when something turns up." His fondling of
the Southern merchants was showing such results that he had grown
from an interest in whatever papers were on his desk to a belief
in the divine necessity of The Job as a whole. Not now, as of old,
did he keep the personal letters in his desk tied up, ready for a
sudden departure for Vienna or Kamchatka.
Pages:
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332