“I want to know! Humph! They remind me of the gang in the billiard-room back home. The billiard-roomers—the chronic ones—don’t have any business, either, except to keep the dust from collectin’ on the chairs. That and talkin’ about hard times. These chaps don’t seem to be sufferin’ from hard times, much.”
“No. Most of the younger set have rich fathers or have inherited money.”
“I see. They let the old man do the worryin’. That’s philosophy, anyhow. What are they so interested in outside? Parade goin’ by?”
“No. I imagine an unusually pretty girl passed just then.”
“Is that so? Well, well! Say, Mr. Sylvester, the longer I stay in New York the more I see that the main difference between it and South Denboro is size. The billiard-room gang acts just the same way when the downstairs school teacher goes past. Hello!”
“What is it?”
“That young chap by the mizzen window looks sort of familiar to me. The one that stood up to shake a day-day to whoever was passin’. Hum! He’s made a hit, ain’t he? I expect some unprotected female’s heart broke at that signal. I cal’late I know him.”
“Who? Which one? Oh, that’s young Corcoran Dunn. He is a lady-killer, in his own estimation. How d’ye do, Dunn.”
The young man turning grinning from the window, caught a glimpse of the lawyer as the latter rose to identify him. He strolled over to the fire.
“Hello, Sylvester,” he hailed, carelessly. “That was a peach. You should have seen her. What? Why, it’s the Admiral!”