time-table of the Sunday trains that stop at Ocean Grove, New Jersey.
“One night when I beat Paisley to the bench by one pipeful, my friendship gets subsidised for a minute, and I asks Mrs. Jessup if she didn’t think a ‘H’ was easier to write than a ‘J.’ In a second her head was mashing the oleander flower in my buttonhole, and I leaned over and—but I didn’t.
“‘If you don’t mind,’ says I, standing up, ‘we’ll wait for Paisley to come before finishing this. I’ve never done anything dishonourable yet to our friendship, and this won’t be quite fair.’
“‘Mr. Hicks,’ says Mrs. Jessup, looking at me peculiar in the dark, ‘if it wasn’t for but one thing, I’d ask you to hike yourself down the gulch and never disresume your visits to my house.’
“‘And what is that, ma’am?’ I asks.
“‘You are too good a friend not to make a good husband,’ says she.
“In five minutes Paisley was on his side of Mrs. Jessup.
“‘In Silver City, in the summer of ’98,’ he begins, ‘I see Jim Bartholomew chew off a Chinaman’s ear in the Blue Light Saloon on account of a cross-barred muslin shirt that—what was that noise?’
“I had resumed matters again with Mrs. Jessup right where we had left off.
“‘Mrs. Jessup,’ says I, ‘has promised to make it Hicks. And this is another of the same sort.’
