He went across the room and accosted the old sporting journalist.
“I want a quiet word with you,” he said. “This place is like a pandemonium.”
Crowfoot led the way into a side alcove and ordered a drink.
“Always is, this time,” he said, yawning. “But it’s companionable. What is it, Spargo?”
Spargo took a pull at the glass which he had carried with him. “I should say,” he said, “that you know as much about sporting matters as any man writing about ’em?”
“Well, I think you might say it with truth,” answered Crowfoot.
“And old sporting matters?” said Spargo.
“Yes, and old sporting matters,” replied the other with a sudden flash of the eye. “Not that they greatly interest the modern generation, you know.”
“Well, there’s something that’s interesting me greatly just now, anyway,” said Spargo. “And I believe it’s got to do with old sporting affairs. And I came to you for information about it, believing you to be the only man I know of that could tell anything.”
“Yes—what is it?” asked Crowfoot.