“Know anything of his habits, and so on?” I asks.
“Not a thing,” says the Rev. Sam.
“Then you take it from me,” says I, “that you ain’t missed much.”
See? I couldn’t go all over that record of Bobby Brut’s, specially to a preacher. Not that Bobby was the worst that ever cruised around the Milky Way in a sea goin’ cab with his feet over the dasher; but he was something of a torrid proposition while he lasted. You remember some of his stunts, maybe? I hadn’t kept strict tabs on him; but I’d heard that after they chucked him out of the sanatorium his mother planted him here, with a man nurse and a private doctor, and slid off to Europe to stay with her son-in-law Count until folks forgot about Bobby.
And this was the youth the Rev. Mr. Hooker had come to have a heart to heart talk with!
“Ain’t you takin’ a lot of trouble, just for a few Polackers?” says I.
“They are my brothers,” says he, quiet like.
“What!” says I. “You don’t look it.”
His mouth corners flickers a little at that, and there comes a glimmer in them solemn gray eyes of his; but he goes on to say that it’s part of his belief that every man is his brother.
“Gee!” says I. “You’ve adopted a big fam’ly.”