Christ badger every old friend of the family!
The oaf's knock was pompous. Bonk and pause, bonk and pause, bonk.
Like the pass-signal to a kid's shanty.
I opened the door, being careful to cling to the knob.
My dimmest view was justified.
Socker Melton was a big chum—sixty-two or -three and about two-hundred and twenty-five. He had a face that would have been square if he'd sacrificed his extra chin—large, blue, eager-beaver eyes—a babyish snub nose—and a rather thick mouth, not very clearly defined; but there was nothing repulsive in the ensemble—he looked like a star Buick salesman. He wore—maybe I should say sported, since he probably thought of it that way—a white flannel suit of a light weight and he carried a panama hat, the sweatband of which was earning its keep. A poor day for those big boys and I felt sorry for him. His clerical collar was doing its best to stand up for Jesus—but there were folds in it and his black dickey was mussed.
I propped the door open.
He inventoried the place after a passing gander at me. You could see that he liked nice things—and the Astolat is well heeled. His eye rested especially on some mirror-backed hanging shelves.
"I hate to intrude like this—"
"Any friend of pop's—" I said.