"I don't think you're a perfect liar," answered Hamilton, "I think you're the most inefficient liar I've ever met."
"Not even a liar, I'm a romancist, sir," Bones stiffened with dignity and saluted, but whether he was saluting Hamilton, or the spirit of Romance, or in sheer admiration was saluting himself, Hamilton did not know.
"The fact is, sir," said Bones confidentially, "I'm writing a book!"
He stepped back as though to better observe the effect of his words.
"What about?" asked Hamilton, curiously.
"About things I've seen and things I know," said Bones, in his most impressive manner.
"Oh, I see!" said Hamilton, "one of those waistcoat pocket books."
Bones swallowed the insult with a gulp.
"I've been asked to write a book," he said; "my adventures an' all that sort of thing. Of course they needn't have happened, really——"
"In that case, Bones, I'm with you," said Hamilton; "if you're going to write a book about things that haven't happened to you, there's no limit to its size."