“Tired, boy?”
“No. That reminds me of my thrilling tale, which I shall begin after my third slice of toast, and not before. You can occupy the precious minutes, dad, in telling me of your excitements in the office this afternoon.”
“Don't sniff at me. I had a few, though apparently you think it impossible in my humdrum grey life.”
“Good!” said Barry, his mouth full of toast. “Go on.”
“Young Neil Fraser is buying, or has just bought, the S.Q.R. ranch. Filed the transfer to-day.”
“Neil Fraser? He's in my tale, too. Bought the S.Q.R.? Where did he get the stuff?”
“Stuff?”
“Dough, the dirt, the wherewithal, in short the currency, dad.”
“Barry, you are ruining your English,” said his father.
“Yum-yum. Bully! Did you notice that, dad? I'm coming on, eh? One thing I almost pray about, that I might become expert in slinging the modern jaw hash. I'm appallingly correct in my forms of speech. But go on, dad. I'm throwing too much vocalisation myself. You were telling me about Neil Fraser. Give us the chorus now.”