Villages, farms and summer places are flying by. Let them
fly. I, too, am flying--back to the rest and quiet of
the city.
"Old man," Beverly-Jones said, as he laid his hand on
mine very kindly--he is a decent fellow, after all, is
Jones--"they're calling you by long-distance from New
York."
"What is it?" I asked, or tried to gasp.
"It's bad news, old chap; fire in your office last evening.
I'm afraid a lot of your private papers were burned.
Robinson--that's your senior clerk, isn't it?--seems to
have been on the spot trying to save things. He's badly
singed about the face and hands. I'm afraid you must go
at once."
"Yes, yes," I said, "at once."
"I know. I've told the man to get the trap ready right
away. You've just time to catch the seven-ten. Come along."
"Right," I said. I kept my face as well as I could, trying
to hide my exultation. The office burnt! Fine! Robinson's
singed! Glorious! I hurriedly packed my things and
whispered to Beverly-Jones farewell messages for the
sleeping household. I never felt so jolly and facetious
in my life. I could feel that Beverly-Jones was admiring
the spirit and pluck with which I took my misfortune.
Later on he would tell them all about it.
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