“I want to see every last picture you have,” said Clara, with pretty impetuousness. “I want to see if I can’t find some one.”
“Look out, Jim,” said Joe, with a heavy frown. “You have a rival!”
“Oh, dear!” groaned Jim, and Clara heartlessly made a face at him.
“How do you know he has only one?” she asked, evidently referring to “rivals,” and poor Jim groaned again.
While Joe went off for his “rogues’ gallery,” Reggie stood by the mantel, idly twirling his monocle, a thoughtful look in his eyes. However, when he found Mabel’s gaze upon him he smiled brightly and came over to sit beside her.
“You know, I really should be going,” he said. “But, you know, I have the oddest desire to see this ‘rogues’ gallery’ for myself. I shouldn’t linger for a bally second longer, I shouldn’t really. There’s a fellow I must look up for the gov’nor without delay. I know jolly well I should be upon my way.”
“Listen here, old boy,” said Joe, returning at that moment with a huge album which looked as if it might in all truth contain the picture of every ball player on the globe. “Whether you know it or not, you’re going to attend to no business to-night. You’re going to help paint this little town red along with the rest of our merry party. Don’t let ’em tell you different.”
“But I say, old chap, business is business, you know,” protested Reggie, but this time it was Jim who put down the protest.
“Business!” he snorted. “And you can talk about business on your first night in the greatest little town in the world? Stow it, Reggie, before we make you!”
“But, you know”—it came feebly, but it was still a protest—“I’m afraid I’ll be intruding, you know—the fly in the ointment—the odd member—all that sort of thing.”