“C’m over and I’ll tell you all about him,” he invited.
Dick crossed the street and punched Tom’s head in a comradely fashion. They clinched, broke away, sparred a little, and then stopped, breathless and satisfied.
“Who is he?”
“Search me,” replied Tom Lupton 2nd, less in the voice of entreaty than with the air of a man making a succinct statement. “I tried to talk to him to-day over the fence and the guy only said ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ to ever’thing. I got his name—that Guy.”
“What is it?” asked Dick, innocently.
“Guy,” answered Tom. “Ow!” He doubled over to protect his ribs from the impatient Mr. Hand. “I told yuh, Guy! Guy! His name is Guy! Like—like ‘Guy Mannering,’” explained Mr. Lupton, who was fifteen and didn’t look it, and was taking English I in Patchogue High School, and didn’t speak it.
“Mannering, what sort of a name is that?” demanded Mr. Hand.
“It isn’t Mannering, it’s Vanton,” said Tom, wisely not trying to explain. Whereupon Mr. Hand, remarking, “You said it was Mannering, I’ll Mannering you!” fell upon him afresh and they punched each other happily for several minutes until a shadow fell athwart them.
Stopping to see who approached, they were almost borne down by a huge, elderly man who walked with a peculiar tread, planting his feet firmly at each step and taking short steps. His preoccupied and lordly expression took no cognizance of the young men as he went through them, like a massive keel cutting in two a couple of sportive little waves.
Immense sidewhiskers, like studding sails, expanding the spread of his ample countenance, fluttered in the breeze. His weathered cheeks looked hard as the sides of a steel ship; there was a stony, distant stare in his eyes, wrinkled at their corners. He wore a coat cut like a huge boy’s reefer; there were brass buttons on it and his hands were thrust in the pockets.