“Back?” repeated McNatt, coming out of his trance. “Yes, that’s so. It must be—” He searched under the edge of his sweater for something evidently not there. “Have you a watch? I seem to have forgotten mine.”
“Twenty to five,” said Willard.
“Then we’d better start.” McNatt gazed thoughtfully, almost sorrowfully at his witch-hazel stick and laid it gently on the rock. “I may try that again some time, but I rather think I was mistaken; I rather think it should have been the corylus americana.”
“Something nutty sounds more likely,” said Willard gravely. To his surprise, the other chuckled.
“That hadn’t occurred to me,” he replied. “You see, some of the fellows call me McNutt. By the way, what’s your name?”
Willard told him and McNatt nodded. “Harmon: the name’s familiar. I remember now. There is a fellow of that name who plays football. Quite a remarkable full-back, I think.”
“Gordon Harmon? Did you know him?”
“I read about him. He played on one of the high school teams in New York City, I believe. Is he a relation of yours?”
“Brother.”
“Really?” McNatt turned and viewed Willard with real interest. “Well! Think of that! I dare say you’re sort of proud of him.”