“Who is her father?” he asked, seating himself on the rail.
“He’s a son of a gun,” said Steve with emphasis. “As rich as John D. pretty nearly and about as chummy as a rattlesnake. Were you thinking of calling and asking him for a father’s blessing?”
“Something of the sort, I suppose.”
“Forget it! He’d give you the hook before you’d got through asking if you might call him daddy.”
“You’re comforting, Steve. They call you Little Sunbeam at home, don’t they?”
“Hell!” said Steve warmly, “I’m not shooting this at you just to make you feel bad. I gotta reason. I want to make you see this ain’t going to be no society walk-over, with the Four Hundred looking on from the pews and poppa signing cheques in the background. Say, did I ever tell you how I beat Kid Mitchell?”
“Does it apply to the case in hand?”
“Does it what to the which?”
“Had it any bearing on my painful position? I only ask, because that’s what is interesting me most just now, and, if you’re going to change the subject, there’s a chance that my attention may wander.”
“Sure it does. It’s a—what d’you call it when you pull something that’s got another meaning tucked up its sleeve?”