I looked up with a nod of greeting, while he sat and eyed me impatiently for some seconds.
"Aren't you coming with me down to Southampton?" he asked finally.
"What time do you leave?" I inquired, without looking up.
"Eleven-thirty."
"What's on?"
"Freddie Marston's Crocodiles and the Blues. It's going to be some polo."
I considered a moment. "Why, I guess I'll run down with you. I'm about through here."
"Good enough!" Harry arose to his feet and began idly fingering some of the sheets on the table before me. "What is all this silly rot, anyway?"
"My dear boy," I smiled, "you'll be sorry you called it silly rot when I tell you that it is a plain and honest tale of our own experiences."
"Must be deuced interesting," he observed. "More silly rot than ever."