It was thus Caine found him when the Committee meeting broke up. The newspaper owner strolled across toward Conover, a tantalizing smile on his thin, bored face.
“Well?” he queried.
Conover glanced up eagerly at his friend’s approach.
“Say, Caine,” he asked, pointing, “Why do they choose one of the iron-tipped sticks sometimes and then use one of the brass headed ones next time, for just the same kind of a swat?”
Caine gazed down at Caleb in genuine wonder; then dropped into a chair at his side.
“Conover,” he declared, “You’re the only man on earth who never bores me. And it’s because you never by any chance happen to say or do what people have a right to expect you to.”
“If it’s a riddle—” said Caleb, puzzled, as he looked away from the green.
“It isn’t. It’s genius,” answered Caine. “Here I come to bring you the decision of the Committee. The decision that’s supposedly been keeping you on pins and needles. And, instead of dragging the news out of me by main force, you ask a question about a putting match.”
“Oh, the decision?” returned Caleb, carelessly. “That’s all right. I’m to be kept on as a pop’lar, respected member. I knew that before I left the Committee room.”
“You knew more than I did, then.”