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- Oh, Money! Money! - 1/52 -


[Illustration by Helen Mason Grose with caption: "I was thinking--of Mr. Stanley G. Fulton"]

OH, MONEY! MONEY!

A NOVEL

BY

ELEANOR H. PORTER

Author of

The Road to Understanding, Just David, Etc.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY HELEN MASON GROSE

To

My Friend

EVA BAKER

CONTENTS

I. EXIT MR. STANLEY G. FULTON

II. ENTER MR. JOHN SMITH

III. THE SMALL BOY AT THE KEYHOLE

IV. IN SEARCH OF SOME DATES

V. IN MISS FLORA'S ALBUM

VI. POOR MAGGIE

VII. POOR MAGGIE AND SOME OTHERS

VIII. A SANTA CLAUS HELD UP

IX. "DEAR COUSIN STANLEY"

X. WHAT DOES IT MATTER?

XI. SANTA CLAUS ARRIVES

XII. THE TOYS RATTLE OUT

XIII. THE DANCING BEGINS

XIV. FROM ME TO YOU WITH LOVE

XV. IN SEARCH OF REST

XVI. THE FLY IN THE OINTMENT

XVII. AN AMBASSADOR OF CUPID'S

XVIII. JUST A MATTER OF BEGGING

XIX. STILL OTHER FLIES

XX. FRANKENSTEIN: BEING A LETTEB FKOM JOHN SMITH TO EDWARD D. NORTON, ATTORNEY AT LAW

XXI. SYMPATHIES MISPLACED

XXII. WITH EVERY JIM A JAMES

XXIII. REFLECTIONS--MIRRORED AND OTHERWISE

XXIV. THAT MISERABLE MONEY

XXV. EXIT MR. JOHN SMITH

XXVI. REENTER MR. STANLEY G. FULTON

ILLUSTRATIONS

"I WAS THINKING--OF MR. STANLEY G. FULTON" Frontispiece

"I CAN'T HELP IT, AUNT MAGGIE. I'VE JUST GOT TO BE AWAY!"

"JIM, YOU'LL HAVE TO COME!"

"AND LOOK INTO THOSE BLESSED CHILDREN'S FACES"

From drawings by Mrs. Howard B. Grose, Jr.

CHAPTER I

EXIT MR. STANLEY G. FULTON

There was a thoughtful frown on the face of the man who was the possessor of twenty million dollars. He was a tall, spare man, with a fringe of reddish-brown hair encircling a bald spot. His blue eyes, fixed just now in a steady gaze upon a row of ponderous law books across the room, were friendly and benevolent in direct contradiction to the bulldog, never-let-go fighting qualities of the square jaw below the firm, rather thin lips.

The lawyer, a youthfully alert man of sixty years, trimly gray as to garb, hair, and mustache, sat idly watching him, yet with eyes that looked so intently that they seemed to listen.

For fully five minutes the two men had been pulling at their cigars in silence when the millionaire spoke.

"Ned, what am I going to do with my money?"

Into the lawyer's listening eyes flashed, for a moment, the keenly scrutinizing glance usually reserved for the witness on the other side. Then quietly came the answer.

"Spend it yourself, I hope--for some years to come, Stanley."

Mr. Stanley G. Fulton was guilty of a shrug and an uplifted eyebrow.

"Thanks. Very pretty, and I appreciate it, of course. But I can't wear but one suit of clothes at a time, nor eat but one dinner--which, by the way, just now consists of somebody's health biscuit and hot water. Twenty millions don't really what you might call melt away at that rate."

The lawyer frowned.

"Shucks, Fulton!" he expostulated, with an irritable twist of his hand. "I thought better of you than that. This poor rich man's 'one- suit, one-dinner, one-bed-at-a-time' hard-luck story doesn't suit your style. Better cut it out!"

"All right. Cut it is." The man smiled good-humoredly. "But you see I was nettled. You didn't get me at all. I asked you what was to become of my money after I'd done spending it myself--the little that is left, of course."

Once more from the lawyer's eyes flashed that keenly scrutinizing glance.

"What was it, Fulton? A midnight rabbit, or a wedge of mince pie NOT like mother used to make? Why, man alive, you're barely over fifty, yet. Cheer up! It's only a little matter of indigestion. There are a lot of good days and good dinners coming to you, yet."

The millionaire made a wry face.

"Very likely--if I survive the biscuits. But, seriously, Ned, I'm in earnest. No, I don't think I'm going to die--yet awhile. But I ran across young Bixby last night--got him home, in fact. Delivered him to his white-faced little wife. Talk about your maudlin idiots!"

"Yes, I know. Too bad, too bad!"

"Hm-m; well, that's what one million did--inherited. It set me to thinking--of mine, when I get through with them."

"I see." The lawyer's lips came together a little grimly. "You've not made your will, I believe."

"No. Dreaded it, somehow. Funny how a man'll fight shy of a little thing like that, isn't it? And when we're so mighty particular where it goes while we're living!"

"Yes, I know; you're not the only one. You have relatives--somewhere, I surmise."

"Nothing nearer than cousins, third or fourth, back East. They'd get it, I suppose--without a will."

"Why don't you marry?"

The millionaire repeated the wry face of a moment before.

"I'm not a marrying man. I never did care much for women; and--I'm not fool enough to think that a woman would be apt to fall in love with my bald head. Nor am I obliging enough to care to hand the millions over to the woman that falls in love with THEM, taking me along as the necessary sack that holds the gold. If it comes to that, I'd rather risk the cousins. They, at least, are of my own blood, and they didn't angle to get the money."


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