Presently the person thus adjured returned to his hotel, and with
a somewhat puzzled expression read the adjuration. "R. Smith," he
murmured, reflectively. "I think I do remember a Dicky Smith, from
Philadelphia, at Columbia. But he wasn't in my class, and my class
wasn't '68, but '76, and I don't remember ever saying a dozen words
to him. He's got a good deal of cheek, whoever he is--and he, and
his dinner, and his missing man may all go to the devil together! His
invitation is absurd!" And with this ultimatum Mr. Livingstone laid the
letter and envelope neatly together, preparatory to tearing them into
fragments.
But before this purpose was accomplished, another view of the situation
came into his mind. "I don't see why I shouldn't go," he thought. "I've
been muddling all day with this wretched wool man--which is a bore, even
if I have made a pretty good bargain with him for next season's clip;
and Ned hasn't come to time, which is another bore, for now I'll have to
eat my dinner alone. And this Dicky Smith writes like a gentleman, even
if he is cheeky; and he certainly seems to be in a peck of troubles
about his missing man, and his thirteen at table, and the rest of it.
Why, it's a regular adventure! And to think of having an adventure in
Philadelphia, of all places in the world! By Jove, I'll go!"