I
felt as if I had suddenly emerged from the parlor of a dive and its stench
of sickening perfumes, into the pure air of God's Heaven.
I signed the bill, and we went afoot up the avenue. Sam, as I saw with a
good deal of amusement, was trying to devise some subtle, tactful way of
attaching his poor, clumsy little suction-pump to the well of my secret
thoughts.
"What is it, Sammy?" said I at last. "What do you want to know that you're
afraid to ask me?"
"Nothing," he said hastily. "I'm only a bit worried about--about you and
Textile. Matt,"--this in the tone of deep emotion we reserve for the
attempt to lure our friends into confiding that about themselves which will
give us the opportunity to pity them, and, if necessary, to sheer off from
them--"Matt, I do hope you haven't been hard hit?"
"Not yet," said I easily. "Dry your tears and put away your black clothes.
Your friend, Tom Langdon, was a little premature."
"I'm afraid I've given you a false impression," Sam continued, with
an overeagerness to convince me that did not attract my attention at
the time. "Tom merely said, 'I hear Blacklock is loaded up with Textile
shorts,'--that was all. A careless remark. I really didn't think of it
again until I saw you looking so black and glum.
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