He fairly staggered every
time he got a glimpse of himself in the shop windows.
All day long he strolled about the street, from store to store, or
leaned imposingly against every post that presented itself conveniently.
Naturally he was the talk of the town.
"Gee-mi-nently!" ejaculated Alf Reesling, catching sight of him late in
the day. "Is that the president?"
"It's Anderson Crow," explained Blootch Peabody.
"Who's dead?" demanded Alf.
"What's that got to do with it?"
"Why, whose clothes is he wearin'?" pursued Alf, utterly overcome by the
picture.
"You'd better not let him hear you say that," cautioned Isaac Porter.
"He got 'em in New York. He says young Mr. Bonner give 'em to him fer a
weddin' present. Rosalie give him a pearl dingus to wear in his cravat,
an' derned ef he don't have to wear a collar all the time now. That
lawyer Barnes give him the cane. Gee whiz! he looks like a king, don't
he?"
At that moment Anderson approached the group in front of Lamson's store.
He walked with a stateliness that seemed to signify pain in his lower
extremities more than it did dignity higher up.
"How fer out do you reckon they are by this time, Blootch?" he asked
earnestly.
"'Bout ten miles further than when you asked while ago," responded
Blootch, consulting his watch.
"Well, that ought to get 'em to Liverpool sometime soon then.
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