"Well! If that's the kind of pill you are, maybe you didn't lose your mit in the Boer War either."
Emerson answered for the adventurer: "Hardly! He got blood-poisoning from a hangnail."
Clyde began to laugh uncontrollably. "Really! That's great! Oh, that's lovely! Here I've been gobbling fairy tales like a black bass at sunset. He! he! he! I must introduce Mr. Froel—Mr. Fra—Mr. What's-his-name to the boys. He! he! he!"
It was evident that Fraser was not accustomed to this sort of treatment; his injured pride took refuge in a haughty silence, which further stirred the risibilities of Clyde until that young man's thin shoulders shook, and he doubled up, his hollow chest touching his knees. He pounded the tiles with his cane, stamped his patent-leather boots, and wept tears of joy.
"What's the joke?" demanded the rogue. "Anybody would think I was the sucker."
"Where is George?" questioned Boyd, to change the subject.
"In his trundle-bed, I suppose," said Fraser, stiffly.
"Along about nine o'clock he begins to yawn like a trained seal. That's how I came to fall in with—this." He indicated the giggling Clyde. "I didn't have anything better to do."
"Did you show George around, as I asked?"
"Sure! After that fairy—farrier, I should say—finished his front feet, I took him out and let him look at the elevated railroad. Then he came back and hunted up the janitor of the building. He spent the evening in the basement with the engineer. Oh, he's had a splendid day!"