“Keep who?”
“Mister Larch.”
“They ain’t no such party hereabouts,” he went on before Gard could reply. “Leastwise you don’t know ’im. Dudes, an’ Chinks, they nominates me Mister Larch; because the first don’t know no better, an’ the others they has to, er git busted good an’ plenty. But to my friends I’m Sandy.”
“I believe it!” laughed Gard. “I guess your friends find you all sand, when they need the article.”
Sandy looked at him with frank admiration.
“Say: now you’re shouting,” he cried. “I like that there. Speakin’ o’ bouquets, you couldn’t ’a’ handed me a prettier one if you’d set still to think it up fer a week.”
“Glad you like it,” replied Gard. “I meant it to be liked.”
“Like it? Say! you just combed my hair nice, didn’t you? An’ when you need someone to weigh out sand you just buscar me, Mr. Gard.”
“No you don’t; you drop that!” Gard looked stern.
“Drop what?” demanded Sandy, startled.