There was nothing about Mr. Temple or his house which awed Roy in the least. He had been reared in a home of wealth and that atmosphere which poor Tom could not overcome his fear of did not trouble Roy at all. He was as much at ease in the presence of his elders as it is possible for a boy to be without disrespect, but he was now to be put to the test.
He found Mr. Temple enjoying an after-breakfast smoke on the wide veranda at Five Oaks, a bag of golf sticks beside him.
“Good morning, Mr. Temple,” said Roy.
If one had to encounter Mr. John Temple at all, this was undoubtedly the best time and place to do it.
“Good morning, sir,” said he, brusquely but not unpleasantly.
“I guess maybe you know me, Mr. Temple; I’m Mr. Blakeley’s boy.”
Mr. Temple nodded. Roy leaned against the rubble-stone coping of the veranda.
“Mr. Temple,” said he, “I came to see you about something. At first I was going to ask Mr. Ellsworth to do it, then I decided I would do it myself.”
Mr. Temple worked his cigar over to the corner of his mouth, looking at Roy curiously and not without a touch of amusement. What he saw was a trim, sun-browned boy wrestling with a charming little touch of diffidence, trying to decide how to proceed in this matter which was so important to him and so trifling to John Temple, but exhibiting withal the inherent self-possession which bespeaks good breeding. He was half sitting on the coping and half leaning against it, his browned, muscular arms pressing it on either side.
Perhaps it was the incongruity of the encounter, or perhaps his recent breakfast and his good cigar, but he said not unpleasantly, “Lift yourself up there and sit down if you want to. What can I do for you?”