Sylvester,
last time I was down here."
"No, indeed," replied the senior partner. "Smoke, if you wish. No one
here has any objection, unless it may be Graves."
"Oh, Mr. Graves ain't. He and I fired up together that night we fust
met. Hot smoke tasted grateful after all the cold water we'd had poured
onto us in that storm. Graves is all right. He's a sportin' character,
like myself. Maybe he'll jine us. Got another cigar in my pocket."
But the invitation was declined. The "sporting character" might deign
to relax amid proper and fitting surroundings, but not in the sacred
precincts of his office. So the captain smoked alone.
"Well," he observed, after a few preliminary puffs, "go on! Don't keep
me in suspenders, as the feller said. Where did the lightnin' strike,
and what's the damage?"
Sylvester took a card from his pocket and referred to a penciled
memorandum on its back.
"Captain Warren," he began, slowly, "as you know, and as directed by
you, my partners here and I have been engaged for months in carefully
going over your brother's effects, estimating values, tabulating and
sorting his various properties and securities, separating the good from
the worthless--and there was, as we saw at a glance, a surprising amount
of the latter--"
"Um-hm," interrupted the captain, "Cut Short bonds and the like of that.
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