“Oh, isn’t he? Who is, then? Marchmont?”
“Yes, or at least he looks like one and acts like one,” returned Wolcott, warmly.
Tompkins stared. “Laughlin’s no dude, I’ll admit,” he said after some deliberation. “He’s never been able to get money at a bank just by signing a check, and I don’t suppose he’d feel entirely at home in a Fifth Avenue ballroom. But he’s worth as many Marchmonts as you can pile in that bedroom there—and a pile of Marchmonts would settle a good bit; they’d be pretty flabby.”
“Please remember that Marchmont’s a friend of mine,” said Wolcott, haughtily.
“Is he?” said Tompkins, coolly. “I’m not so sure of that.”
This remark Wolcott received with chilling silence.
“There’s one thing Marchmont can do all right,” went on Tompkins.
“What’s that?”
“Play the mandolin. He’s ’most as good as a nigger minstrel.”
“There’s another thing he can do,” replied Wolcott, quickly, “write poetry. You’re mighty glad to get it for the Lit.”