"Uncle Seth, this is Mr. Cardigan, who was so very nice to me the day
I landed in Red Bluff."
The Colonel bowed. "I have to thank you, sir, for your courtesy to my
niece." He had assumed an air of reserve, of distinct aloofness,
despite his studied politeness. Bryce stepped forward with extended
hand, which the Colonel grasped in a manner vaguely suggestive of
that clammy-palmed creation of Charles Dickens--Uriah Heep. Bryce was
tempted to squeeze the lax fingers until the Colonel should bellow
with pain; but resisting the ungenerous impulse, he replied instead:
"Your niece, Colonel, is one of those fortunate beings the world will
always clamour to serve."
"Quite true, Mr. Cardigan. When she was quite a little girl I came
under her spell myself."
"So did I, Colonel. Miss Sumner has doubtless told you of our first
meeting some twelve years ago?"
"Quite so. May I offer you a cocktail, Mr. Cardigan?"
"Thank you, certainly. Dad and I have been pinning one on about this
time every night since my return."
"Shirley belongs to the Band of Hope," the Colonel explained. "She's
ready at any time to break a lance with the Demon Rum. Back in
Michigan, where we used to live, she saw too many woodsmen around
after the spring drive. So we'll have to drink her share, Mr.
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