"That's part of my game, kid—not letting people see how I do anything. But it's as simple as rollin' off a log, as the jays say. I must confess—and that is something I make it a rule never to do—that this high living is not good for me. I'll get into awful habits, if I keep it up. I won't be satisfied with pretzels and bologny sausages. Seems to me I feel a touch of the gout coming on now."
"You will have breakfast with me in the dining-room to-morrow morning, Dick," announced the master of the house. "It won't be necessary to swipe it, as you call it."
Dick grinned. "My dear chap," he mimicked, "I have my breakfast stowed away in the garret at this minute. Never put off till to-morrow what you ought to do to-day. In time of plenty prepare for famine. Still, if you insist, I'll join you at some ham and eggs—and coffee. I do miss my coffee, old chap. We take a train for Richmond at nine A. M."
David's patience gave out. "What does it all mean, Dick? I must know at once. It must be important or you wouldn't—"
"Maybe it's important and maybe it ain't," philosophized Dick, relighting the long pipe.
"Well, let's have it."
"Tom Braddock's out."
"Out? I don't understand."
Dick's surprise was genuine. "You don't mean to say you never heard what happened to him?"
"Joey wrote me that he had gone completely to the dogs in Chicago."