Wrenn.
"Gee!" he was exulting to himself, "never thought I'd get
anything like that. Twenty-nine-fifty! More 'n enough to marry
on now! I'm going to get _twenty-nine-fifty!_"
"Married five months ago to-night, honey," said Mr. Wrenn to
Nelly, his wife, in their Bronx flat, and thus set down October
17, 1913, as a great date in history.
"Oh, I _know_ it, Billy. I wondered if you'd remember. You just
ought to see the dessert I'm making--but that's a s'prise."
"Remember! Should say I did! See what I've got for somebody!"
He opened a parcel and displayed a pair of red-worsted
bed-slippers, a creation of one of the greatest red-worsted
artists in the whole land. Yes, and he could afford them, too.
Was he not making thirty-two dollars a week--he who had been poor!
And his chances for the assistant managership "looked good."
"Oh, they'll be so comfy when it gets cold. You're a dear! Oh,
Billy, the janitress says the Jewish lady across the court in
number seventy is so lazy she wears her corsets to bed!"
"Did the janitress get the coal put in, Nell?"
"Yes, but her husband is laid off again.
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