He looked expectantly at Mr. Gwathmey, who thereupon bowed at the implied compliment, but, not knowing what to say, said nothing.
"You read in the papers about the parade my poor fellows had Saturday?"
"Not the—er—sandwich-men's parade?"
"Yes!" H. R. smiled so gratefully and congratulatory that Mr. Gwathmey felt himself enrolled among the honorary vice-presidents. "That's it. The society emblem is a skeleton and the sandwich-boards are a coffin—"
"Yes, I read that," and Mr. Gwathmey smiled at the delightful humor of the conceit.
H. R. instantly frowned at the levity—all very rich men frown at all smiles aimed at their pet hobbies.
Mr. Gwathmey, knowing the ways of millionaires, hastened to explain, gravely, "There is a great deal to that idea!"
"Nobody helped me!" H. R. spoke eagerly, as all youthful aristocrats speak when they speak of their own ideas. "The Ultimate Sandwich! What you and I shall be at least once. I am glad you agree with me. Now, I wish statuettes made in bronze in three sizes, two, four, and six inches high, so they can be used by my friends as desk ornaments. And can you put on a nice patine?"
"Oh yes! And—er—Mr.—ah—" Gwathmey looked ashamed of himself.
But H. R. smiled pleasantly and said: "It is easy to see you are not a Rutgers College man. I'm Mr. Rutgers. My father—" He stopped—naturally.