Frothingham smiled conciliatingly. “Oh, I say, now! I don’t see anything to make a row over. The beggar’s a right to eat where he pleases, hasn’t he?”
Barney half a dozen chairs away glowering at Longview
“Of course he has, and to stick his tongue out at all the rest of us, as he does it. You don’t understand. It ain’t what he does. It’s why he does it. We Americans can’t stand those kind of airs.”
“It seems very mysterious to me,” confessed Frothingham. “I admit I don’t understand your country.”
“Oh, you’re all right,” reassured Barney, slapping Frothingham’s leg cordially. “I never thought I’d like one of you titled fellows. I despised you all for a useless set of nobodies and nincompoops. And whenever my womenfolks got to talking about that kind of thing I always sat on ’em, and sat hard—I’m a hard sitter when I want to be. But I like you, young man. You’re more an American than an Englishman, just as Longview’s more English than American—he ain’t American at all. You talk like an American. You behave like an American. And when you’ve been in America long enough to wear your clothes out, and get some that fit you, you’ll look like an American.”
“Thanks,” said Frothingham drily.
“You don’t like it?” Barney laughed good-humouredly. “Well, I don’t blame you. You’re judging America by Longview and me. That ain’t fair. I’m a rough one—never had a chance—first thing I remember is carrying the swill buckets out to feed the hogs before sun-up when I still wore slips. But I mean right. And I’ve got a son and a daughter that are a real gentleman and a real lady, and don’t you forget it.”
“Oh, you’re all right,” said Frothingham, slapping Barney on the leg—Frothingham was a sentimental dog where his pocket and his pleasure were not concerned, and he liked Barney’s look as he spoke of himself and the hogs, and his children.
“You don’t want to go back to that little old island of yours,” continued Barney, “without seeing Chicago. There’s a town! And I’ll give you the time of your life. I want you to meet my family.”