“Gee! He’s him hisself!” chortled Sandy.
Cheerio was punching the electric bell persistently. Hilda, hurrying at the summons, opened the door inside, cast a haughty look from the reporter to Cheerio, and then reluctantly unhooked the latch and let the latter in. She closed both doors again with a snap.
Sandy, who had not followed Cheerio into the house, stood grinning up at the reporter, and the latter was seized with an inspiration. He returned the jeering stare of P. D.’s son with a man-to-man look of confidence. Nonchalantly, he brought forth a cigarette case and, extending it carelessly to Sandy, invited him to have one. Sandy, whose young lips had never touched the forbidden weed, helped himself with ostentatious carelessness and even accepted the light tendered from the other’s half finished stub.
“In a hurry?” asked the newspaper man.
“Nope.”
“Suppose we sit over here.”
The reporter indicated the steps, and Sandy leaned back against the pillar with the cigarette alternately between his two fingers or between his young lips.
“You’re P. D. McPherson’s son, are you not?”
“Yeh.”
“Well, what about this Englishman? I wonder if you can tell me something about him.”