"Maybe not. At least we can try him," was His Highness's optimistic assertion. "Hi, Mr. Burns!" The lad was out of the car and hastening along in the wake of a much sunburned station agent in blue denim overalls.
"Wal, if it ain't Walter King! What you after, young one? I hear you've become the proprietor of Surfside—bought out the whole darn place for yourself."
"I did buy it but I'm going to sell it again. It's too small. I can't get room enough to stretch up there," came impishly from the lad on the platform.
"Show! You don't say!" drawled Mr. Burns with obvious relish of the joke. "Well, it ain't wise to be cramped. Maybe you wouldn't get your growth if you were."
He cast a glance toward the short, thick-set figure behind him.
"I say, Mr. Burns," burst out Walter, "are you terribly busy? I've got something I want to show you."
"What is it?" demanded the man, halting and holding suspended in his hand a cerulean blue egg case.
"I don't know what it is—that's just the trouble," answered Walter mysteriously.
"What you up to anyhow?" demanded Mr. Burns suspiciously.
Walter thrust forth the sheet of paper he had drawn from his pocket.