"There is one locomotive," mused Bones. "It is called 'Mary Louisa.' Pyeburt told me about it just as I was going away. Of course, one would get a bit of a name and all that sort of thing."
He scratched his chin and walked thoughtfully into the office of Miss
Marguerite Whitland.
She swung round in her chair and reached for her notebook, but Bones was not in a dictatorial mood.
"Young miss," he asked, "how do you like Sir Augustus?"
"Sir who?" she demanded, puzzled.
"Sir Augustus," repeated Bones.
"I think it's very funny," she said.
It was not the answer he expected, and instinctively she knew she had made a mistake.
"Oh, you're thinking about yourself," she said quickly. "Are you going to be a knight, Mr. Tibbetts? Oh, how splendid!"
"Yes," admitted Bones, with fine indifference, "not bad, dear old miss.
I'm pretty young, of course, but Napoleon was a general at twenty-two."