"Who's the fresh kid?" asked Billford.
"That," said I, "is Ambrose Phipps, only son of Old Man Phipps."
"Humph!" grunted Harson. "The living, breathing proof that marriage is a failure. What's he want?"
Ambrose himself answered the question. He had advanced to our table.
"You gentlemen got a game?" he asked, laying his hand on Billford's shoulder.
Now if there is anything that Billford loathes and detests, it is familiarity on short acquaintance. He hadn't even met this fresh youth; so he shrugged his shoulder in a very pointed manner and glared at Ambrose. The boy did not remove his hand.
"'S all right, old top," said he reassuringly. "It's clean—just washed it. Clean as your shirt." He bent down and looked at Billford's collar. "No," said he; "cleaner.... Well, how about it? Got your game fixed up?"
"We are waiting for a fourth man." I answered because Billford didn't seem able to say anything; he looked on the point of exploding.
"Oh, a fourth man, eh? Well, if he doesn't turn up you know me." And Ambrose passed on to the next table.
"Insufferable young rotter!" snarled Billford.