“For his mother’s sake,” Brissenden urged.
“It’s worth considering,” Martin replied; “but it doesn’t seem worth while enough to rouse sufficient energy in me. You see, it does take energy to give a fellow a poking. Besides, what does it matter?”
“That’s right—that’s the way to take it,” the cub announced airily, though he had already begun to glance anxiously at the door.
“But it wasn’t true, not a word of what he wrote,” Martin went on, confining his attention to Brissenden.
“It was just in a general way a description, you understand,” the cub ventured, “and besides, it’s good advertising. That’s what counts. It was a favor to you.”
“It’s good advertising, Martin, old boy,” Brissenden repeated solemnly.
“And it was a favor to me—think of that!” was Martin’s contribution.
“Let me see—where were you born, Mr. Eden?” the cub asked, assuming an air of expectant attention.
“He doesn’t take notes,” said Brissenden. “He remembers it all.”
“That is sufficient for me.” The cub was trying not to look worried. “No decent reporter needs to bother with notes.”