“Why, this is bully,” spoke the youngster joyfully. “I’m awfully glad I met you. I wonder if there’s anything I can do to make you enjoy yourself. Tell you what”—he went on in a burst—“ginger! I’m glad I thought of it—come out on the water with me, will you, Mr. Lord? I’ve got a canoe, and my side-partner’s sneaked—can’t find him. Anyhow, there’s plenty of room, even if he turns up, if you’ll sit tight and part your hair in the middle. Are you used to boats?”
Trefethen smiled. “That was my business when I was in college.”
“What, were you on a crew?” the lad asked, his eyes bright with interest.
Vanity betrayed Trefethen suddenly. “I was captain of the ’Varsity crew of my year,” he stated, and then felt alarmed to see the impression.
Elliot stopped short, quite casual as to halting a long procession back of him. With that he gave his own knee a sounding slap.
“Ginger!” he exploded. “Ginger! Hullygee! and I never suspected. I might have known you were something with that build,” and he glanced over Trefethen’s figure searchingly. “Nobody has that look without its meaning something. Ginger!” he murmured again with no sense of monotony, and swung on, gazing sidewise admiringly at the embarrassed Trefethen. “Why, this is simply great, Mr. Lord,” he addressed him. “We must have you over at the boat-house to meet the men—maybe you can row on a veteran crew—I don’t know how that is—that’s not my line—but anyhow they’d love to meet you. Lord—Lord,” he reflected. “Don’t seem to remember the name—but the crews are not in my beat, as I said—they’ll place you fast enough at the boat-house. What’s your year?”
With that Trefethen realized that his incognito was in peril. “It won’t do, Mr. Elliot,” he said firmly. “I’m tired and came out for a lazy afternoon, and I don’t want to meet people, even Yale men. I’m not up to it. I’ll be delighted to go out in your canoe if it won’t inconvenience you, but I’m a back number, and would only be in the way at the boat-house.”
“Back number nothing,” responded the boy earnestly. “Of course they’d be proud and glad. Yale men don’t shelve their chaps who’ve won laurels for them. Did you win, by the way? What class were you?” he demanded.
Now Trefethen’s crew had gained an historic victory, and to give his class might place it and him. He did not want to be placed. He had an uneasy feeling that the multi-millionaire Marcus Trefethen would lose this unique comradeship which the obscure graduate Lord had found. This afternoon he had no use for his millions and his powerful name.
“Don’t pin an old bald-head, young man,” he argued. “Don’t you see I’m ashamed of my age?”