“Is that a Harvard ribbon round your hat?” I asked.
“It is!” declared Kinney; “and I have a Yale ribbon, and a Turf Club ribbon, too. They come on hooks, and you hook ‘em on to match your clothes, or the company you keep. And, what’s more,” he continued, with some heat, “I’ve borrowed a tennis racket and a golf bag full of sticks, and you take care you don’t give me away.”
“I see,” I returned, “that you are going to get us into a lot of trouble.”
“I was thinking,” said Kinney, looking at me rather doubtfully, “it might help a lot if for the first week you acted as my secretary, and during the second week I was your secretary.”
Sometimes, when Mr. Joyce goes on a business trip, he takes me with him as his private stenographer, and the change from office work is very pleasant; but I could not see why I should spend one week of my holiday writing letters for Kinney.
“You wouldn’t write any letters,” he explained. “But if I could tell people you were my private secretary, it would naturally give me a certain importance.”
“If it will make you any happier,” I said, “you can tell people I am a British peer in disguise.”
“There is no use in being nasty about it,” protested Kinney. “I am only trying to show you a way that would lead to adventure.”
“It surely would!” I assented. “It would lead us to jail.”
The last week in August came, and, as to where we were to go we still were undecided, I suggested we leave it to chance.