"Oh, what shall I do! I don't want anybody to be hung! It must be so
perfectly awful!"
Her touching display of generous feeling does not soften him. On the
contrary, he stands more erect, and smiles rather triumphantly under his
straw hat.
"Beloved one," he murmurs, in a rich voice, "I find that I cannot induce
you to make the first advance toward the mutual avowal we are both
longing for, and must therefore precipitate our happiness myself. My
poor boy would not have given you perfect satisfaction, and your
momentary liking for the male PENDRAGON was but the effect of a
temporary despair undoubtedly produced by my seeming coldness. That
coldness had nothing to do with my heart, but resulted partially from my
habit of wearing a wet towel on my head. I now propose to you--"
"Propose to me?" ejaculates Miss POTTS, with heightened color.
"--That you pick out a worthy man belonging to your own section of the
Union," he continues hastily. "Here's my Heart," he adds, going through
the motions of taking something from a pocket and placing it in his
outstretched palm, "and here's my Hand,"--placing therein an equally
imaginary object from another pocket.--"Try the H. and H. of J.
BUMSTEAD."
His manner is as though he were commending some patent article of
unquestionable utility.
"But I can't bear the sight of you!" she cries, pushing away the brown
linen arm coming after her again.
Taking away her fan, he pats her on the head with it, and seems
momentarily surprised at the hollow sound.
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