“But what about that ‘even tenor of your way’?” fenced the commodore. “You don’t, as a usual thing, go around parleyvooing—”
“What about the even tenor of your own ways?” retorted Bob.
“Nothing said about that when we—”
“No, but—how can I go the even tenor, if you don’t go yours?”
“Hum?” said the commodore.
“Don’t you see it’s not the even tenor?” persisted Bob. “But it’s your fault if it isn’t.”
“Some logic in that,” observed Clarence.
“Maybe, we have been a bit too previous,” conceded the commodore.
“That isn’t precisely the adjective I would use,” returned Bob. He found himself thinking more clearly now. They had all, perhaps, been stepping rather lightly when they had left the club. He should have thought of this before. But Bob’s brain moved rather slowly sometimes and the others had been too bent on having a good time to consider all the ethics of the case. They showed themselves fair-minded enough now, however.
“Bob’s right,” said the commodore sorrowfully. “Suppose we’ve got to eliminate ourselves from his agreeable company for the next three weeks, unless we just naturally happen to meet. We’ll miss a lot of fun, but I guess it’s just got to be. What about that parleyvooing business though, Bob?”