“Say, Al,” observed Issy, one afternoon in late August of that year, “how do YOU like that Raymond young feller?”
Albert looked up absently from the page of the daybook.
“Eh? What?” he asked.
“I say how do YOU like that Eddie Raymond, the Down-at-the-Neck one?”
“Down at the neck? There's nothing the matter with his neck that I know of.”
“Who said there was? He LIVES down to the Neck, don't he? I mean that young Raymond, son of the New York bank man, the ones that's had the Cahoon house all summer. How do you like him?”
Albert's attention was still divided between the day-book and Mr. Price. “Oh, I guess he's all right,” he answered, carelessly. “I don't know him very well. Don't bother me, Issy, I'm busy.”
Issachar chuckled. “He's busy, too,” he observed. “He, he, he! He's busy trottin' after Helen Kendall. Don't seem to have time for much else these days. Noticed that, ain't you, Al? He, he!”
Albert had not noticed it. His attention left the day-book altogether. Issachar chuckled again.
“Noticed it, ain't you, Al?” he repeated. “If you ain't you're the only one. Everybody's cal'latin' you'll be cut out if you ain't careful. Folks used to figger you was Helen's steady comp'ny, but it don't look as much so as it did. He, he! That's why I asked you how you liked the Raymond one. Eh? How do you, Al? Helen, SHE seems to like him fust-rate. He, he, he!”