“A body would think Bill was drinking to the Judge,” remarked Cousin
Egbert in a high voice.
“Eh?” I said, startled to this outburst by his strange words.
“Good old George!” exclaimed his lordship. “Owe it all to the old
juggins, what, what!”
The Klondike person spoke. I heard her voice as a bell pealing through
breakers at sea. I mean to say, I was now fair dazed.
“Not to old George,” said she. “To old Ruggles!”
“To old Ruggles!” promptly cried the Senator, and they drank.
Muddled indeed I was. Again in my eventful career I felt myself
tremble; I knew not what I should say, any _savoir faire_ being
quite gone. I had received a crumpler of some sort--but what
_sort?_
My sleeve was touched. I turned blindly, as in a nightmare. The Hobbs
cub who was my vestiare was handing me our evening paper. I took it
from him, staring--staring until my knees grew weak. Across the page
in clarion type rang the unbelievable words: