“Fine work, old pal! I guess you put all your lemons into the squeezer and got the juice, eh?”
Biff had a copy of the Bulletin in his hand, which was sufficient explanation of his congratulations.
“Things do seem to be turning out pretty lucky for me, Biff,” Bobby confessed, and then, looking at Mr. Bates, he immediately apologized. “I beg pardon for calling you Biff,” said he. “I should have said Mr. Bates.”
“Cut it!” growled Biff, looking himself over with some complacency nevertheless.
From his nice new derby, which replaced the slouch cap he had always preferred, to his neat and uncomfortably-pointed gun-metal leathers which had supplanted the broad-toed tans, Mr. Bates was an epitome of neatly-pressed grooming. White cuffs edged the sleeves of his gray business suit, and—wonder of wonders!—he wore a white shirt with a white collar, in which there was tied a neat bow of—last wonder of all—modest gray!
“I suppose that costume is due to distinctly feminine influence, eh, Biff?”
“Guilty as Cassie Chadwick!” replied Biff with a sheepish grin. “She’s tryin’ to civilize me.”
“Who is?” demanded Bobby.
“Oh, she is. You know who I mean. Why, she’s even taught me to cut out slang. Say, Bobby, I didn’t know how much like a rough-neck I used to talk. I never opened my yawp but what I spilled a line of fricasseed gab so twisted and frazzled and shredded you could use it to stuff sofa-cushions; but now I’ve handed that string of talk the screw number. No more slang for your Uncle Biff.”
“I’m glad you have quit it,” approved Bobby soberly. “I suppose the next thing I’ll hear will be the wedding bells.”