"You Kohinoor's uncle?" howled Swanson joyously as he sprang up and seized the old gentleman with a bear hug and waltzed him around. "Welcome to our fair city, uncle. I adopt you right now. Kohinoor is my chum. How does it seem to be the uncle of a hero?"
"Release me, you scoundrel," puffed the uncle. "Release me or I'll cane you! Where is he?"
"Truth is, uncle, he's gone skirting," said Swanson, releasing his victim.
"Gone where?" asked the uncle.
"Skirting—calling on a girl—and between you and me, uncle, he's got the best chance to win her, and she's worth winning."
"What, another?" demanded the uncle. "Then he hasn't eloped with that blond niece of that crook, Baldwin?"
"Not on your life," said Swanson, "he's won the best little girl in the world."
In five minutes they were laughing and chatting like old friends, and the uncle was boasting of his nephew's prowess at baseball.
"Hang it," he stormed, "I ought to cane him, the young rascal, for treating me this way. He never let me know he was playing, and I only got to see one game. But wasn't that a—what do you call it—a corker?"
"Let's go to them," proposed Swanson.