He caught March about his stalwart girth and tried to make him waltz; the office-boy came to the door and looked on with approval.
"Come, come, you idiot!" said March, rooting himself to the carpet.
"It's just throwing the thing into our mouths," said Fulkerson.
"The wedding will be this day week.

No cards! Teedle-lumpty-diddle! Teedle-lumpty-dee! What do you suppose he means by it, March ?" he asked, bringing himself soberly up, of a sudden.

"What is his little game?
Or is he crazy?
It don't seem like the Dryfoos of my previous acquaintance." "I suppose," March suggested, "that he's got money enough, so that he don't care for this--" "Pshaw! You're a poet! Don't you know that the more money that kind of man has got, the more he cares for money?
It's some fancy of his--like having Lindau's funeral at his house--By Jings, March, I believe you're his fancy!" "Oh, now! Don't you be a poet, Fulkerson!" "I do! He seemed to take a kind of shine to you from the day you wouldn't turn off old Lindau; he did, indeed.

It kind of shook him up.

It made him think you had something in you.