DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.22217#0264
THE WRONG UMBRELLA.
THE WRONG UMBRELLA.
A gentleman drove up to a Princes Street jeweller's in a
carriage or a cab—the jeweller was not sure which, but in-
clined to think that it was a private carriage—in broad day-
light, and at the most fashionable hour. He was rather a
pretty-faced young man, of the languid Lord Dundreary type,
with long, soft whiskers, which he stroked fondly during the
interview with the tradesman, and wore fine clothes of the
newest cut with the air of one who was utterly exhausted with
the trouble of displaying his own wealth and beauty. He
wore patent boots fitting him like a glove, and appeared
particularly vain of his neat foot and the valuable rings on his
white fingers.
When this distinguished customer had been accommodated
with a seat by the jeweller—whom I may name Mr Ward—he
managed to produce a card-case, and then dropped a card
bearing the name of Samuel Whitmore. The address at the
corner at once gave the jeweller a clear idea of the identity of
his customer. The Whitmores were a wealthy family, having
an estate of considerable size in the West, and had, in addition
to the fine house on that estate, a town residence in Edinburgh
and another in England. There was a large family of them,
but only one son; and that gentleman the jeweller now under-
stood he had the pleasure of seeing before him. He was said
to be a fast young man, with no great intellect, but traits of
that kind are not so uncommon among the rich as to excite
comment among tradesmen. The follies of some are the food
of others, and the jeweller was no sooner aware of the identity
of his visitor than he mentally decided that he was about to
get a good order. He was not disappointed—at least in that
particular.
" I want your advice and assistance, Mr Ward, as to the
THE WRONG UMBRELLA.
A gentleman drove up to a Princes Street jeweller's in a
carriage or a cab—the jeweller was not sure which, but in-
clined to think that it was a private carriage—in broad day-
light, and at the most fashionable hour. He was rather a
pretty-faced young man, of the languid Lord Dundreary type,
with long, soft whiskers, which he stroked fondly during the
interview with the tradesman, and wore fine clothes of the
newest cut with the air of one who was utterly exhausted with
the trouble of displaying his own wealth and beauty. He
wore patent boots fitting him like a glove, and appeared
particularly vain of his neat foot and the valuable rings on his
white fingers.
When this distinguished customer had been accommodated
with a seat by the jeweller—whom I may name Mr Ward—he
managed to produce a card-case, and then dropped a card
bearing the name of Samuel Whitmore. The address at the
corner at once gave the jeweller a clear idea of the identity of
his customer. The Whitmores were a wealthy family, having
an estate of considerable size in the West, and had, in addition
to the fine house on that estate, a town residence in Edinburgh
and another in England. There was a large family of them,
but only one son; and that gentleman the jeweller now under-
stood he had the pleasure of seeing before him. He was said
to be a fast young man, with no great intellect, but traits of
that kind are not so uncommon among the rich as to excite
comment among tradesmen. The follies of some are the food
of others, and the jeweller was no sooner aware of the identity
of his visitor than he mentally decided that he was about to
get a good order. He was not disappointed—at least in that
particular.
" I want your advice and assistance, Mr Ward, as to the