"About twenty-eight thousand words since breakfast-time," replied Courtney, taking the pipe out of his mouth. "Not counting the ten thousand last night."
"You hear, Masters?"
"But may I ask, sir, what in lum's name you're doing? "
"I'm dictatin' my reminiscences." "Your what?"
"My me-moirs," said H.M. accenting his version of the first syllable. "My autobiography.", Masters stood very still. Bland as a card-sharper, with his grizzled hair carefully brushed to hide the bald-spot, he stood in the strong sunshine like a man struck by certain apprehensions.
"Oh, ah? What you'd call your life story, eh?"
"That's it. Shrewd lad, Masters."
"I see. You — er — you haven't said anything about me in it, have you?"
"No, not yet," admitted H.M. He chortled. "But, oh, my eye, is it goin' to be juicy when I do!"
"I warn you, sir—!"