Every time I glanced in his direction, I found him looking over at me in an amused sort of way. I began to wonder if I were making some breach of Canadian etiquette of which I was ignorant. True, I had eaten my porridge and cream without sprinkling the dish with a surface of sugar as he had done; I had set aside the fried potatoes which had been served to me with my bacon and eggs;—but these, surely, were trivial things and of no interest to any one but myself.
At last, he rose and walked out, sucking a wooden toothpick. With his departure, I forgot his existence.
After I had breakfasted, I sought the lounge room in order to have a look at the morning paper and, if possible, determine what I was going to do for a living and how I was going to get what I wanted to do.
I was buried in the advertisements, when a genial voice with a nasal intonation, at my elbow, unearthed me.
It was my observer of the dining-room. He had seated himself in the chair next to mine.
"Say! young man,—you'll excuse me; but was it you I saw come in last night with the bag of golf clubs?"
I acknowledged the crime.
He laughed good-naturedly.
"Well,—you had courage anyway. To sport a golfing outfit here in the West is like venturing out with breeches, a walking cane and a monocle. Nobody but an Englishman would dare do it. Here, they think golf and cricket should be bracketed along with hopscotch, dominoes and tiddly-winks; just as I used to fancy baseball was a glorified kids' game. I know better now."
I looked at him rather darkly.