"Perhaps he shot this one."
"Perhaps he did."
"Was he a friend of the gentleman who keeps the shop where you bought it?"
"I shouldn't be surprised," said John.
"Wouldn't you?" said Harold, skeptically. "My father was an asplorer. When I'm big I'm going to be an asplorer, too; but I sha'n't be friends with shopkeepers."
"Confounded little snob," John thought, and began to look for his nailbrush, the address of whose palatial residence of pigskin only Maud knew.
"What are you looking for, Uncle John?" Harold asked.
"I'm looking for my nailbrush, Harold."
"Why?"
"To clean my nails."