Boston State House, broad in the beam and with a shiny dome on top. But
he could qualify for the nervous dyspepsy class all right, judging
by his language to the depot-wagon driver. When he got through making
remarks because one of his trunks had been forgot, that driver's
quotation, according to Peter T., had "dropped to thirty cents, with a
second assessment called." I jedged the meals at our table would be as
agreeable as a dog-fight.

However, 'twas up to me, and I towed him in and made him acquainted with
Mabel. She wa'n't enthusiastic--having heard some of the driver sermon,
I cal'late--until I mentioned his name. Then she gave a little gasp
like. When Van had gone up to his rooms, puffing like a donkey-engyne
and growling 'cause there wa'n't no elevators, she took me by the arm
and says she:

"WHAT did you say his name was, Mr. Wingate?"

"Van Wedderburn," says I. "The New York millionaire one."

"Not of Van Wedderburn & Hamilton, the bankers?" she asks, eager.

"That's him," says I. "Why? Do you know him? Did his ma used to do
washing at your house?"

She laughed, but her face was all lit up and her eyes fairly shone. I
could have--but there! never mind.

"Oh, no," she says, "I don't know him, but I know of him--everybody
does."