"Hello! What's up now?" asked Blake in a casual tone. "Going to bridge
Behring Straits?"
"Hey?" demanded the worker, glancing up with an abstracted look.
His dark eyes narrowed as he took in the trim figure of the earl and Blake's English cap and tweeds. But at sight of Blake's face he shoved back his chair and came hurrying around the end of the desk, his thin dry face lighted by a rare smile of friendship. He warily caught the tip of Blake's thick fingers in his bony clasp.
"Well! I'll be—switched!" he croaked. "What you doing here, Tommy?
Thought we'd got rid of you for good."
"Guess you'll have to lump it," rejoined Blake. "I'm here with both feet, and I want a job—P-D-Q. First, though, I want you to shake hands with my friend, Jimmy Scarbridge—Hold on! Wait a second."
He drew himself up pompously, and bowed to Lord James in burlesque mimicry of Mrs. Gantry. "Aw, beg pawdon, m'lud. Er—the—aw—Right Hon'able the—aw—Earl of Avondale: I present—aw—Mistah Griffith."
"Chuck it! The original's enough and to spare," cut in his lordship. He turned to Griffith with unaffected cordiality. "Glad to meet one of Tom's other friends, Mr. Griffith."
"The only other," added Blake.
"Then I'm still gladder!" said Lord James, gripping the bony hand of
Griffith. "Don't let Tom chaff you. My name's just Scarbridge—James
Scarbridge."
"Owh, me lud! Himpossible!" gasped Blake. "And your papa a juke!"