“Oh, yes, you do, old boy. Harry Bohm, of Bohm & Cohn. Everybody knows
Bohm, and we’ll all be knowing Cohn by next year. Gazza has sold him
a lot of furniture, too. Bohm’s from Pittsfield, or South Lee, or East
Canaan, or West Stockbridge, or some of those other back-country cider
presses that squirt some of the hardest propositions into Wall Street.
He’s just back from buying a railroad, and four or five mines in Mexico.
Bohm represents Christianity in the firm. At Newport they call him the
military attache to Jerusalem. He’s the big chap that sat behind me in
the car. He’ll marry Kitty as soon as she can get her divorce. Bohm’s a
jolly old sort--and I tell you, you old sourbelly, you’re letting this
Southern moss grow over you a bit. Hey? What? Yellow rich isn’t half
bad, and I’ll say it myself, and pretend it’s mine; but hang it,
old man, their children won’t be worse than lemon-colored, and the
grandchildren will be white!”
“Just in time,” I exclaimed, “to take a back seat with their evaporated
fortunes!”
Beverly chuckled. “Well, if they do evaporate, there will be new ones.
Now don’t walk along making Mayflower eyes at me. I’m no Puritan, and my
people have had a front seat since pretty early in the game, which I’m
holding on to, you know. And by Jove, old man, I tell you, if you wish
to hold on nowadays, you can’t be drawing lines! If you don’t want to
see yourself jolly well replaced, you must fall in with the replacers.
Our blooming old republic is merely the quickest process of endless
replacing yet discovered, and you take my tip, and back the replacers!
That’s where Miss Rieppe, for all her Kings Port traditions, shows
sense.”