"Here you are," he cried, "browner and thinner than ever! Give me that
bag. How did you leave my friend the Shah of Persia?"
"Better," I said, stepping into the open carriage, "since he got on the
water-wagon--uses nothing but Eastridge silver-plated ice-pitchers now."
"And my dear friend the Empress of China?" he asked, as he got in
beside me.
"She has recovered her digestion," I answered, "due entirely to the
abandonment of chop-sticks and the adoption of Eastridge knives and
forks. But now it's my turn to ask a question. How are YOU?"
"Well," said he. "And the whole family is well, and we've all grown
tremendously, but we haven't changed a bit, and the best thing that has
happened to us for three years is seeing you again."
"And the factory?" I asked. "How does the business of metallic humbug
thrive?"
"All right," he answered. "There's a little slackening in
chafing-dishes just now, but ice-cream knives are going off like hot
cakes. The factory is on a solid basis; hard times won't hurt us."
"Well, then," said I, a little perplexed, "what in Heaven's name did
you mean by sending that--"
"Hold on," said Talbert, gripping my knee and looking grave for a
moment, "just you wait. I need you badly enough or else the telegram
never would have gone to you. I'll tell you about it after supper.
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