II

“Haow? Lobster-car?”

“No. His own private car, of course. You’ve seen a private car some time in your life?”

“Slatin Beeman he hez one,” said Dan, cautiously. “I saw her at the Union Depot in Boston, with three niggers hoggin’ her run.” (Dan meant cleaning the windows.) “But Slatin Beeman he owns ’baout every railroad on Long Island, they say, an’ they say he’s bought ’baout ha’af Noo Hampshire an’ run a line fence around her, an’ filled her up with lions an’ tigers an’ bears an’ buffalo an’ crocodiles an’ such all. Slatin Beeman he’s a millionaire. I’ve seen his car. Yes?”

“Well, my father’s what they call a multimillionaire, and he has two private cars. One’s named for me, the ‘Harvey,’ and one for my mother, the ‘Constance.’ ”

“Hold on,” said Dan. “Dad don’t ever let me swear, but I guess you can. ’Fore we go ahead, I want you to say hope you may die if you’re lyin’.”

“Of course,” said Harvey.

“The ain’t ’niff. Say, ‘Hope I may die if I ain’t speaking’ truth.’ ”

“Hope I may die right here,” said Harvey, “if every word I’ve spoken isn’t the cold truth.”

“Hundred an’ thirty-four dollars an’ all?” said Dan. “I heard ye talkin’ to Dad, an’ I ha’af looked you’d be swallered up, same’s Jonah.”

Harvey protested himself red in the face. Dan was a shrewd young person along his own lines, and ten minutes’ questioning convinced him that Harvey was not lying⁠—much. Besides, he had bound himself by the most terrible oath known to boyhood, and yet he sat, alive, with a red-ended nose, in the scuppers, recounting marvels upon marvels.