An old gentleman passed us in a mail phaeton, drawn by a pair of fat cobs, your bellows-to-mend and step-short sort. They don’t like me, because I always make a point of giving them the dust in summer, so one of them snorted, “Station hack!”
“Going to have a shave?” I asked, quite civilly, he being all of a lather.
Minkie gave the old gentleman a smile and a bow. He was rather surprised, which was reasonable enough, seeing that she usually sails along without seeing anybody; but he got his hat off in good time.
“Who is that?” inquired Schwartz.
“Jack’s uncle,” said Minkie.
“Jack is a friend of yours, eh?”
“Um, yes, but he—perhaps I shouldn’t say anything about it. Jack is twenty-five, you see.”
“Oh, is he?” Schwartz was not smiling now. It was easy to guess that by his voice. “I suppose he is better acquainted with your sister than with you?”
“Yes, heaps.”
“What is his other name?”