“Exactly.” Stuart paused in the act of pocketing off the red. “And if I wanted to be a sandwich-man, you, or one of you, would get me an introduction to the very person who owned the identical pitch I had set my heart on perambulating.” Changing his tactics, he pocketed the red, viciously.
“Well, but——” Uncle Baldwin liked to be literal, “what’s that got to do with it? You don’t want to be a sandwich-man, do you?” apprehensively.
“As much as anything else. Why not? It’s fatal to specialize.”
Derwent Heron laid his cue in the rack. “What’s amiss, my boy? Let us probe to the root of the matter, since we happen to be assembled in full force. Babs, my dear,” to his flapper daughter, marking for the players, “run away to your Aunt Elizabeth.”
Reluctantly Barbara obeyed, flinging Stuart a look of worship as she passed: “Lord, I am here an thou wantest me!” Youngest of a quartette, her sisters had carefully bred her in the Heron traditions.
He caught at her long russet plait: “Between ourselves, Babs,” in a whisper; “how much unearned increment have you been placing to my account?”
She flushed crimson: “Oh, Stuart, it isn’t cheating, is it? when it’s not for oneself.”
“I’ll consider the plea. How much?”
“Only ... seven.”