“Not a cent,” answered Harry. “So, Mister Smarty!”
“Huh!” muttered Chub. “That just shows how foxy he is.”
“I think you’re perfectly horrid, Chub Eaton,” said Harry. “Mr. Noon is just as nice as he can be, and very—very gentlemanly!”
“That’s so,” allowed Chub. “He seems a mighty decent sort, but—but just the same I don’t believe he’s a book agent. There’s a mystery about him.”
Harry’s eyes brightened.
“Oh, do you think so?” she asked eagerly. “Perhaps he’s a lord or something traveling in—in—”
“Incognito,” aided Roy.
“Yes,” cried Harry. “Haven’t you noticed that he talks sort of—sort of foreign sometimes?”
“Can’t say I have,” Roy laughed. “Although now and then there’s just a suggestion of brogue about his talk.”
“The idea!” Harry said indignantly. “He’s not Irish a bit! I think he’s either English or—or Scotch.”