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The Queen of Farrandale

Boston and New York Houghton Mifflin Company The Riverside Press Cambridge 1923

The Queen of Farrandale

The Riverside Press Cambridge · Massachusetts Printed in the U.S.A.

The Queen of Farrandale

“I’ve never had any luck,” said Hugh Sinclair, lifting a stein of beer and emptying it in one steady draught.

The fashionably dressed man, with graying hair on his temples who sat opposite him at the table, left his own foaming mug untouched as he watched the handsome, rough-looking boy of twenty-four with a half smile.

“Nor my father before me,” added Hugh, as he set down the empty stein. “No silver spoons in the mouths of our family when they are born.”

“Your father was a pretty fine man,” remarked the other.

“Oh, yes, I suppose so,” said the boy carelessly. “I remember, Mr. Ogden, that you and he were a sort of pals. I suppose it was on his account that you looked me up to-day. I’m sorry I haven’t any better hospitality to show you than a near-beer joint. These hot dogs aren’t so bad, though. Try ’em.”

The young fellow drove his fork into the food on his plate and his companion followed his example, while a brazen automatic piano in the corner crashed out “The Virginia Blues.”

John Ogden began to eat. “I love that clever human who cursed the man that put the din into dinner, and took the rest out of restaurant,” he said.

“M’h’m,” agreed Hugh with his mouth full.

“Who are left in your family?” asked Ogden. “The last time I saw you was twelve years ago, and do you know why I remember the date?”

Hugh looked up. “Can’t imagine. Something about father, I suppose.”

“Good old Carol?” said the boy with surprise.

“Yes. How much more time have you before you must go back to the store?”

Hugh looked at his wrist watch. Its dilapidated leather bracelet matched the carelessness of its owner’s general appearance. “Half an hour.”

“Then let us eat quickly and get to some quiet spot.”

They found it in a hotel lobby on the way to Hugh’s place of business, and in transit John Ogden took further mental note of his companion’s shabbiness. Not only were his clothes in need of brushing, but he had not shaved to-day; his shoes were dusty and by industry the boy finished several cigarettes before, in the hotel lobby, they found a couple of neighboring chairs, and he lighted another.