"It would be rather difficult," assented Courtlandt.

"You ought to see the flowers. Loads of 'em. And say, what do you think?

Every jewel that comes she turns into money and gives to charity. Can you

beat it? Fine joke on the Johnnies. Of course, I mean stones that turn up

anonymously. Those that have cards go back by fast-mail. It's a good thing

I don't chance across the senders. Now, boy, I want you to feel at home

here in this family; I want you to come up when you want to and at any old

time of day. I kind of want to pay back to you all the kind things your

dad did for me. And I don't want any Oh-pshawing. Get me?"

"Whatever you say. If my dad did you any favors it was because he liked

and admired you; not with any idea of having you discharge the debt in the

future by way of inconveniencing yourself on my account. Just let me be a

friend of the family, like Abbott here. That would be quite enough honor

for me."

"You're on! Say, that blacksmith yarn was a corker. He was a game old

codger. That was scrapping; no hall full of tobacco-smoke, no palm-fans,

lemonade, peanuts and pop-corn; just right out on the turf, and may the

best man win. I know. I went through that. No frame-ups, all square and on

the level. A fellow had to fight those days, no sparring, no pretty

footwork. Sometimes I've a hankering to get back and exchange a wallop or

two. Nothing to it, though. My wife won't let me, as the song goes."

Courtlandt chuckled. "I suppose it's the monotony. A man who has been

active hates to sit down and twiddle his thumbs. You exercise?"

"Walk a lot."

"Climb any?"

"Don't know that game."

"It's great sport. I'll break you in some day, if you say. You'll like it.

The mountains around here are not dangerous. We can go up and down in a

day."

"I'll go you. But, say, last night Nora chucked a bunch of daisies out of

the window, and as I was nosing around in the vineyard, I came across it.

You know how a chap will absently pick a bunch of flowers apart. What do

you think I found?"

"A note?"

"This." Harrigan exhibited the emerald. "Who sent it? Where the dickens

did it come from?"

Courtlandt took the stone and examined it carefully. "That's not a bad

stone. Uncut but polished; oriental."

"Oriental, eh? What would you say it was worth?"

"Oh, somewhere between six and seven hundred."

"Suffering shamrocks! A little green pebble like this?"

"Cut and flawless, at that size, it would be worth pounds instead of

dollars."




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