Nat Lawson slowly deposited the tray and chuckled to himself.
Unconsciously he raised his head proudly.
"That is my daughter, sir,—my daughter, Cristy. I'm sorry that just now she is not at home."
CHAPTER XIII
AND CONVERTS A GOAL
Phil Kendrick sipped his drink with what he flattered himself was a fine show of unconcern. He even smacked his lips and complimented Mr. Lawson upon the tang of that phosphate mixture he had invented; for it was indeed of fine flavor, quite a delightful beverage.
"I believe you mentioned last night that Miss Lawson had gone in for some kind of newspaper work—was on the staff of the Recorder, if I remember rightly," said Phil with an air of one who makes conversation for the sake of politeness. "I know the sporting editor of that paper and I have heard McAllister spoken of as one of the livest and most conscientious editors in the country. His staff swears by him. Is—er—Miss Lawson still with the Recorder?"
She was. And very fond of her work. She had been inclined towards literary matters almost since she was old enough to read. She wrote her first verses when she was ten, although if she knew that her dad was giving that away she would box his ears, and Nathaniel Lawson laughed to himself reminiscently.
Two things were plain to Kendrick as he listened with interest to Old Nat's homily upon the caprices of the eternal feminine—that this high-spirited motherless girl and her father were very close to each other and, paradoxically, that he knew nothing of her present masquerade as a stenographer in Ferguson's office. For masquerade it evidently was, and Kendrick's mind raced along new channels of speculation which this realization opened up.
He was eager to get away and at the risk of discourtesy he emptied his glass rather hurriedly, refused a second one, refused an invitation to stay to lunch, and once outside the grounds fled in untoward haste.
He went up the stairs at the Recorder building two steps at a time and found himself at last in the little cubbyhole where Chic White sat, surrounded by walls that were papered with half-tone pictures of pugilists, baseball and football stars, and other athletic celebrities. Phil was rather amused to note his own picture in football togs among the rest. It served to open a desultory conversation which had no bearing at all upon the object of his visit. It was some minutes before he finally veered to the subject of women in athletics and from that to women in newspaper work and from that again to the women members of the Recorder's staff. In response to his somewhat too casual enquiry concerning Miss Lawson, Chic sat back and grinned provokingly.