The next day was Saturday, and Blix had planned a walk out to the Presidio. But at
breakfast, while she was debating whether she should take with her Howard and
Snooky, or "Many Inventions," she received a note from Condy, sent by special
"'All our fun is spoiled,' he wrote. 'I've got ptomaine poisoning from eating the creamed
oysters last night, and am in for a solid fortnight spent in bed. Have passed a horrible
night. Can't you look in at the hotel this afternoon? My mother will be here at the time.'"
"Ptomaine poisoning!" The name had an ugly sound, and Condy's use of the term
inferred the doctor's visit. Blix decided that she would put off her walk until the
afternoon, and call on Mrs. Rivers at once, and ask how Condy did.
She got away from the flat about ten o'clock, but on the steps outside met Condy
dressed as if for bicycling, and smoking a cigarette.
"I've got eleven dollars!" he announced cheerily.
"But I thought it was ptomaine poisoning!" she cried with sudden vexation.
"Pshaw! that's what the doctor says. He's a flapdoodle; nothing but a kind of a sort of a
pain. It's all gone now. I'm as fit as a fiddle--and I've got eleven dollars. Let's go
somewhere and do something."
"But your work?"
"They don't expect me. When I thought I was going to be sick, I telephoned the office,
and they said all right, that they didn't need me. Now I've got eleven dollars, and there
are three holidays of perfect weather before us: to-day, to-morrow, and Monday. What
will we do? What must we do to be saved? Our matrimonial objects don't materialize till
Monday night. In the meanwhile, what? Shall we go down to Chinatown--to the
restaurant, or to the water-front again? Maybe the mate on the whaleback would invite
us to lunch. Or," added Condy, his eye caught by a fresh- fish peddler who had just
turned into the street, "we can go fishing."
"For oysters, perhaps."
But the idea had caught Condy's fancy.
"Blix!" he exclaimed, "let's go fishing."