The Imp Disposes
breath. He shut his eyes and it seemed to the Imp that he stood still for an hour. Presently he appeared to wake up.
"Will you say that again?" he requested. The Imp stuck out his lip and started on by himself. This man was worse than his Uncle Stanley.
"I say she don't treat me the same!" he flung back. Suddenly he caught the glimmer of a red parasol.
"There she is! There's Miss Eleanor, now!" he cried.
The man dragged him back. The rod clattered to the ground.
"My good child," he said in a low, hurried voice, "will you be so exceptionally kind as to inform me if the person you refer to is called Miss Eleanor Whitney?"
"Yes, she is," grunted the Imp, struggling to escape. "You let me go, will you?"
"No," the man replied calmly, "not till I memorialize my gratitude and affection. Let me beg your acceptance," he continued, untwisting the Imp from around his legs and holding him fast with one hand while he picked up the fishing
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