Whereupon the door was opened and shut with great swiftness, and Leander Ffolliott advanced to the lounge.
He was dressed in his suit as a member of the United States Navy, the same habiliments which he wore when we first had the honor of meeting him. He once explained why he liked these "togs" better than anything else he had, better even than the much-abbreviated cycling-suit, in which he looked like a mere atom of humanity. These, he said, were regular trousers; they were not the "darn things that came only to his knees." It will be seen that he was already looking forward to pantaloons.
Leander paused near where Lawrence was lying. He had his hands in his pockets, of course, and he was jingling jackstones industriously.
"Well," he said, "how does it go?"
"It doesn't go at all," was the response. Then Lawrence held out his hand and said, "Shake, old fellow."
The boy extended a hand and grinned appreciatively.
"I s'pose you ain't goin' to be hauled up long?" he asked.
"I don't know. I hear you've got a job. How do you like it?"
"What?"
"Why, being a chaperon."