It would be unfair to expect a true nose in any but born Whipples.
Gideon Whipple from before the fireplace swayed forward on his toes and waved his half-smoked cigar.
"The long and short of it is--the Whipple stock has run low.

We're dying out." "Got to have new blood, that's sure," said Sharon.

"Build it up again." "I'd often thought of adopting," said Harvey D., "in the last two years," he carefully added.
"This youngster," said Gideon; "of course we should never have heard of him but for Pat's mad adventure, starting off with God only knows what visions in her little head." "She'd have gone, too," said Sharon, dusting ashes from his waistcoat to the rug.

"Self-headed!" "She demands a brother," resumed Gideon, "and the family sorely needs she should have one, and this youngster seems eligible, and so--" He waved his cigar.
"There really doesn't seem any other way," said Harvey D.at the table, putting a disordered pile of magazines into neat alignment.
"What about pedigree ?" demanded Sharon.

"Any one traced him back ?" "I believe _his_ father is here," said Harvey D.
"I know him," said Sharon.