“Not a bit! Glad to do anything I can, Wigman. What’s the good of having influence if you don’t make use of it for your friends? I say, that’s a peach of a racket you have!”
“Yes, it isn’t bad. I have another one over there.” Wigman took down the Smith Special and handed it across for Jonesie’s examination. “I haven’t used it but once or twice. It’s a little too heavy for me, I find. I do better with the other one. Do you play?”
“Not very much. I’m fond of the game, though. Used to do fairly well before the doctors butted in.”
“I forgot about that,” murmured Wigman sympathetically.
Jonesie weighed the racket in his hand, felt the grip of it, swung it experimentally to and fro and tapped the mesh approvingly.
“Some racket that, Wigman. Don’t know when I’ve run across one I liked as well. Thanks.” He handed it back. Wigman accepted it, but did not return it to its place over the narrow mantel. Instead, he swung it nervously back and forth behind him, opened his mouth, closed it and exhibited all the signs of embarrassment. If Jonesie saw he pretended not to. He picked his cap up and lounged across to the bureau, bending over the row of photographs displayed.
“This your father, Wigman? Fine-looking chap, by Jove! You take after him a lot, don’t you?”
“Do you think so?” asked Wigman in permissible surprise. “Folks usually think I look a good deal more like my mother. That’s her picture at the end there.”
Jonesie observed it critically, shot a look at Wigman and shook his head.
“N-no, I don’t think so. Of course there’s a strong likeness there, too, but it’s your dad you resemble most, I’d say. Well, I must be getting along. Sorry I wasn’t in when you called, Wigman. Try again, will you? I’d like you to meet my chum, Bowles. Fine fellow, Bowles. A bit studious for a lazy duffer like me”—Jonesie’s smile made a joke of that!—“but we get on first chop. Come over soon, Wigman. I wish you would.”