"What for?" asked the Tyro with bland but emphatic inquiry.
Lord Guenn was not precisely slug-witted.
"Stupid of me," he confessed heartily. "What should an American gentleman be but of Yankee type? You know,"—he regarded the Tyro thoughtfully,—"his portrait at Guenn Oaks looks a bit like you."
Little Miss Grouch shot a glance of swift interest and curiosity at the Tyro.
"Very likely," he said. "I'm a Yankee, too, and the type persists. Speaking of types, there's the finest young German infant in the steerage that ever took first prize in a baby-show."
As strategy this gained but half its object. Up rose Little Miss Grouch with the suggestion that they all make a pilgrimage to see the Incomparable Infant of her adoption. Much disgruntled, the Tyro brought up the rear. Judge Enderby drew him aside as they approached the steerage rail.
"Young man, are you a fighter?"
"Me? I'm the white-winged dove of peace."
"Then I think I'll warn young Sperry that if he molests you I'll see that—"
"Wait a moment, judge. Don't do that."