"Those are very good words, Sedgwick," said Mr. Thompson approvingly. "The word I had on my tongue was—balderdash. But your thought was happier. Balderdash is a vague and shapeless term. It conjures up no definite vision. But drivel and drool—very excellent words."
Mr. Thompson took a cigar and seated himself, expectant and happy.
"Boland, what did you come here for, anyhow?" demanded Ferdie explosively. "Do you play tennis? Do you squire the girls? Do you take a hand at bridge? Do you fish? Row? Swim? Motor? Golf? Booze? Not you! Might as well have stayed in New York. Two weeks now you have perched oh a porch—perched and sat, and nothing more. Dawdle and dream and foozle over your musty old books. Yah! Highbrow!"
"Little do you wot; but I do more—ah, far more!—than perching on this porch."
"What do you do? Mope and mowl? If so, mowl for us. I never saw anybody mowl. Or does one hear people when they mowl?"
"Naturally it wouldn't occur to you—but I think. About things.
Mesopotamia. The spring-time of the world. Ur of the Chaldees.
Melchisedec. Arabia Felix. The Simple Life; and Why Men Leave Home."
"No go, Boland, old socks!" said Thompson. "Our young friend is right, you know. You are not practical. You are booky. You are a dreamer. Get into the game. Get busy! Get into business. Get a wad. Get! Found an estate. Be somebody!"
"As for me, I go for a stroll. You give little Frankie a pain in his feelings! For a crooked tuppence I'd get somebody to wire me to come to New York at once.—Uttering these intrepid words the brave youth rose gracefully and, without a glance at his detractors, sauntered nonchalantly to the gate.—Unless, of course, you meant it for my good?" He bent his brows inquiringly.
"We meant it—" said Ferdie, and paused.
"—for your good," said Thompson.