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Smith, Francis Hopkinson, 1838-1915

"Peter: a novel of which he is not the hero"


To begin then with the day on which Jack, with Frederick, the
second man's assistance, packed his belongings and accepted
Garry's invitation to make a bed of his lounge.
The kind-hearted Frederick knew what it was to lose a place, and
so his sympathies had been all the more keen. Parkins's nose, on
the contrary, had risen a full degree and stood at an angle of 45
degrees, for he had not only heard the ultimatum of his employer,
but was rather pleased with the result. As for the others, no one
ever believed the boy really meant it, and everybody--even the
maids and the high-priced chef--fully expected Jack would turn
prodigal as soon as his diet of husks had whetted his appetite for
dishes more nourishing and more toothsome. But no one of them took
account of the quality of the blood that ran in the young man's
veins.
It was scheming Peter who saved the day.
"Put that young fellow to work, Henry," he had said to MacFarlane
the morning after the three had met at the Century Club.
"What does he know, Peter?"
"Nothing, except to speak the truth.


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