A door opened in the corridor. Bascomb, in scanty attire, greeted him.
“Softly, my Romeo. Thy Juliet is not fully attired to receive. Shut the door, dear saint, the air blows chill.”
They shook hands, eyeing each other quizzically. A big, white English bull-terrier uncurled himself and dropped from the foot of the bed to the floor.
“Hello, Smoke! Haven’t forgotten me, have you?”
The terrier sniffed at David and wagged his tail in grave recognition. Then he climbed back to his couch on the tumbled blankets.
“Now,” said Bascomb, searching among his scattered effects for the toothbrush he held in his hand, “tell Uncle Walt, why, thus disguised, you pace the pensive byways of this ignoble burg?”
“Outfitting,” said David.
“Brief, and to the point, my Romeo.”
“For the winter,” added David.
“Quite explicit, Davy. You’re the same old clam—eloquent, interestingly communicative.”