"I get you," says I. "Swell comp'ny. Trust me."

I winks mysterious, and chuckles to myself, "Here's where I slip one on
J. Meredith." And when I packs my suitcase I puts in that full evenin'
regalia that I wins off'm Son-in-Law Ferdy, you remember, in that real
estate deal. Some Cinderella act, I judged that would be, when Merry
discovers the meek and lowly office boy arrayed like a night-bloomin'
head waiter. "That ought to hold him for a spell," thinks I.

But, say, you should see the joint we fetches up at out on the south
shore of Long Island that afternoon. Figurin' on a basis of
seventy-five per, I was expectin' some private boardin' house where
Merry has the second floor front, maybe, with use of the bath. But
listen,--a clipped privet hedge, bluestone drive, flower gardens, and a
perfectly good double-breasted mansion standin' back among the trees.
It's a little out of date so far as the lines go,--slate roof, jigsaw
work on the dormers, and a cupola,--but it's more or less of a plute
shack, after all. Then there's a real live butler standin' at the
carriage entrance to open the hack door and take my bag.

"Gee!" says I. "Say, Merry, who belongs to all this?"

"Oh! Hadn't I told you?" says he. "You see, I live with my aunt. She
is--er--somewhat peculiar; but----"

"I should worry!" I breaks in. "Believe me, with a joint like this in
her own name, I wouldn't kick if she had her loft full of hummin'
birds. Who's next in line for it?"