“How did you hear my speesh?” said Mr. Braddock, plainly mystified. “You weren’t at the dinner.”
“No, but——”
“You couldn’t have been at the dinner,” proceeded Mr. Braddock, reasoning closely, “because evening dress was obliggery and you aren’t obliggery. I’ll tell you what—between you and me, I don’t know who the deuce you are.”
“You don’t know me?”
“No, I don’t know you.”
“Pull yourself together, Bradder. I’m Sam Shotter.”
“Sham Sotter?”
“If you prefer it that way certainly. I’ve always pronounced it Sam Shotter myself.”
“That’s right.”