“Mind if I sit here, Buddy?” he asked cheerily.
“Not a bit,” said David, smiling in return.
“Name’s Ryan,” said the blond husky. “Kenneth Ryan.”
“I’m David Ellison,” said David, warming at once to the honest face and clear gaze.
“Glad to meet you,” said Ryan, extending his hard and muscular hand. He studied the menu card anxiously. “These here mennoos!” he groaned. “What makes ’em have so many things to pick from? When I’m home I eat at delicatessens, or Childs’; but this! Damfino what to choose!”
“I had oatmeal, and bacon and eggs, and cakes,” said David helpfully.
“Bully!” said Ryan. He looked up at the waiter. “The same,” he said, waving a comprehensive hand toward David’s place. Then he settled his elbows on the table.
“I seen you talking to Lord Cram,” he chuckled.
“For a few minutes,” said David. “You know him?”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t know me, now. I used to go to school with him when we were kids at St. Mary’s school in Lawton, Oklahoma. His folks couldn’t send him to public school on account of the Mex and Indians fightin’ him so because of the way he yelled. Beat any Indian war cry you ever heard. Then his grandfather struck oil on his worthless farm, and, lordymighty, the Crams just soared! No, he don’t know me. I’m just a mechanic. How far are you going, if you don’t mind me asking?”