"That puts me under no obligation to eat it," I retorted, "especially as I wasn't present."
"Shave and shut up," he replied, unmoved. Another slice of bread was suspended over the gas jet. I made my toilet leisurely and, at the end, ate a slice of his asphyxiated toast. The coffee was excellent, thanks to the ingeniousness of the machine that made it. So was the cantaloupe—but Knowlton had not made that, either.
"Knowlton," I said, with breakfast over, "when you make toast for me, you try my friendship far."
"You're an ungrateful hound. I've got your railroad tickets to New York. Transportation for two." He emphasized the latter statement. "By No. 46—the 5.02 P. M., Eastern standard time." Deep Harbor used both Eastern and Western time.
"Keep the tickets until I want them. One thing more. Do you expect me to sit here until two o'clock talking to you?"
Knowlton's ancient grin crinkled his eyes. "A little jumpy, aren't we? Well, I don't blame you. Listen to today's Eagle—it will soothe you. 'A marriage is to be solemnized this afternoon, at two o'clock at St. Asaph's Episcopal Church, Myrtle Boulevard, between Helen, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Claybourne of Myrtle Boulevard, and Edward Jevons, of London, England. The social prominence of the young people—Mr. Claybourne is one of the most prominent business men of our lake city, the president of the Claybourne Manufacturing Company, of Twelfth Street, and Mr. Jevons, the prospective groom, is favourably known for his connection with the Deep Harbor Manufacturing Company, lately acquired by a New York corporation—lends unusual interest to this affair. The Rev. Mr. Osborough will officiate. Decorations by Deering. A reception to a few intimate friends will follow at the Claybourne residence. Catering by Podalsky and Rodenheim.'"
I threw a book at Knowlton, which he skilfully dodged.
"That's nothing to what Miss Barnes, who does the social notes for the Eagle, will say tomorrow. You will be worth at least three quarters of a column—not front-page stuff, of course, but the feature story under 'Society,' opposite the woman's page," he continued, ignoring my threats.
At twelve I insisted upon going out to lunch. Knowlton stuck with me. In the grill room of the Otooska House—a lonesome spot, thronged only at night—we had a steak, with which Knowlton drank a glass of milk.
"I'm sorry, Knowlton," I said over cigarettes, "that you won't accept my father's offer and try your luck in England."