"Blix, how long is
it before you go?"
"Six weeks from to-morrow."
"And you're going to be gone four years--four years! Maybe you
never will come back. Can't tell what will happen in four years.
Where's the blooming mouth-organ?"
But the mouth-organ was full of crumbs. Condy could not play on
it. To all his efforts it responded only by gasps, mournfulest
death-rattles, and lamentable wails. Condy hurled it into the
sea.
"Well, where's the blooming book, then?" he demanded. "You're
sitting on it, Blix. Here, read something in it. Open it
anywhere."
"No; you read to me."
"I will not. Haven't I done enough? Didn't I buy the book and get
the lunch, and make the sandwiches, and pay the car-fare? I think
this expedition will cost me pretty near three dollars before
we're through with the day. No; the least you can do is to read
to me. Here, we'll match for it."
Condy drew a dime from his pocket, and Blix a quarter from her
purse.
"You're matching me," she said.
Condy tossed the coin and lost, and Blix said, as he picked up the
book:
"For a man that has such unvarying bad luck as you, gambling is
just simple madness. You and I have never played a game of poker
yet that I've not won every cent of money you had."
"Yes; and what are you doing with it all?"
"Spending it," she returned loftily; "gloves and veils and lace
pins--all kinds of things."
But Condy knew the way she spoke that this was not true.
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