"It would be rather difficult," assented Courtlandt.
"You ought to see the flowers. Loads of 'em. And say, what do you think?
Every jewel that comes she turns into money and gives to charity. Can you
beat it? Fine joke on the Johnnies. Of course, I mean stones that turn up
anonymously. Those that have cards go back by fast-mail. It's a good thing
I don't chance across the senders. Now, boy, I want you to feel at home
here in this family; I want you to come up when you want to and at any old
time of day. I kind of want to pay back to you all the kind things your
dad did for me. And I don't want any Oh-pshawing. Get me?"
"Whatever you say. If my dad did you any favors it was because he liked
and admired you; not with any idea of having you discharge the debt in the
future by way of inconveniencing yourself on my account. Just let me be a
friend of the family, like Abbott here. That would be quite enough honor
for me."
"You're on! Say, that blacksmith yarn was a corker. He was a game old
codger. That was scrapping; no hall full of tobacco-smoke, no palm-fans,
lemonade, peanuts and pop-corn; just right out on the turf, and may the
best man win. I know. I went through that. No frame-ups, all square and on
the level. A fellow had to fight those days, no sparring, no pretty
footwork. Sometimes I've a hankering to get back and exchange a wallop or
two. Nothing to it, though. My wife won't let me, as the song goes."
Courtlandt chuckled. "I suppose it's the monotony. A man who has been
active hates to sit down and twiddle his thumbs. You exercise?"
"Walk a lot."
"Climb any?"
"Don't know that game."
"It's great sport. I'll break you in some day, if you say. You'll like it.
The mountains around here are not dangerous. We can go up and down in a
day."
"I'll go you. But, say, last night Nora chucked a bunch of daisies out of
the window, and as I was nosing around in the vineyard, I came across it.
You know how a chap will absently pick a bunch of flowers apart. What do
you think I found?"
"A note?"
"This." Harrigan exhibited the emerald. "Who sent it? Where the dickens
did it come from?"
Courtlandt took the stone and examined it carefully. "That's not a bad
stone. Uncut but polished; oriental."
"Oriental, eh? What would you say it was worth?"
"Oh, somewhere between six and seven hundred."
"Suffering shamrocks! A little green pebble like this?"
"Cut and flawless, at that size, it would be worth pounds instead of
dollars."