"Sixty."
Tozer calculated.
"Forty years ago—yes, the young chaps about town were still ringing door-knockers then; it was going out, but I had an uncle who did it. This is interesting." Then he exploded. He had never seen Simon the solicitor, or his mirth might have been louder.
"It's very easy to laugh," said Bobby, rather huffed, "but you would not laugh if you were in my shoes—I've got to look after him."
"I beg your pardon," said Tozer. "Now let me be serious. Whatever happens, you have got a fine ficelle for a story. I'm in earnest; it only wants working out."
"Oh, good heavens!" said Bobby. "Does one eat one's grandmother? And how am I to write stories tied like this?"
"He'll write it for you," said Tozer, "or I'm greatly mistaken, if you only hang on and give him a chance. He's begun it for you. And as for eating your grandmother, uncles aren't grandmothers, and you can change his name."
"I wish to goodness I could," said Bobby. "The terror I'm in is lest his name should come out in some mad escapade."
"I expect he's been in the same terror of you," said Tozer, "many a time."
"Yes, but I hadn't an office to look after and a big business."