Henry Meredith, the specialist on nervous diseases (who, like
everybody else, had evidently taken a day off), and half a dozen youths
who looked young enough to be freshmen. She was frantically waving a
crimson flag, which she shook at the windows of our car as she passed
with the spirit of a belle of nineteen.
"That woman is simply wonderful," murmured my darling. "She is
fifty-five if she is a day, but she will not give up."
"Rah! rah! rah! Harvard!" I ejaculated hysterically. I felt that I
was getting rattled, as my famous son calls it.
"Look here, Cousin Fred," said Sam Bangs at my shoulder. "Seen the
morning paper? Here he is cabinet size and a full family history
annexed. It's something which his great-grandchildren will be proud
of. Where the dickens, by the way, is Mrs. Sloane? I've been looking
for her everywhere in the station. She's coming, because she
telephoned me last night to inquire if I could squeeze one more into
our car. We'll be off in another five minutes."
"What _do_ you mean, Sam? What is it?" asked Josephine, as she seized
and held to the light the newspaper which he was extending.
I looked over her shoulder and broke into a cold perspiration at
beholding an execrable three-quarters length cut of my darling son
superscribed by his name in holograph.
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