“When does it begin?” interrupted Bob.
“When you walk out of here,”
“At the front door?”
“When your foot touches the sidewalk, son.” The commodore who was about forty in years sometimes assumed the paternal.
“Never mind the ‘son.’” Bob shuddered. “One father at a time, please!” And then hastily, not to seem ungracious: “I’ve got such a jolly good, real dad, you understand—”
The commodore dropped the paternal. “Well, lads, here’s a bumper to Bob,” he said.
“We see his finish.”
“No doubt of that.”
“To Bob! Good old Bob! Ho! ho!”
“Ha! ha!” said Bob funereally.