You see, with an ex-waitress mother, and a Hungry Jim for a father, Royce might be too tough for anything but a Coney Island spiel-fest. In that case J. Bayard would have to dig up a new scheme. So we starts out to look 'em up.
Accordin' to schedule we should have found 'em both waitin' for us at the lawyer's, sittin' side by side and lookin' scared. But the boy that shows us into the reception room says how Mrs. Hammond is in the private office with the boss, and it looks like Sonny was late.
"I'll tell you," says I to J. Bayard. "You push in and interview Mother, while I stick around out here and wait for the other half of the sketch."
He agrees to that, and has disappeared behind the ground-glass door when I discovers this slick-haired young gent sittin' at a desk over by the window,—a buddin' law clerk, most likely. And by way of bein' sociable I remarks casual that I hear how McGraw is puttin' Tesreau on the mound again to-day against the Cubs.
That don't get much of a rise out of him. "Aw, rully!" says he.
"I expect you'll be hikin' out for the grandstand yourself pretty quick?" I goes on.
"No," says he, shruggin' his shoulders annoyed. "I take no interest in baseball; none whatever, I assure you."
"Excuse my mentionin' it, then," says I. "But just what is your line,—croquet?"
"My favorite recreation," says he, "is dawncing." And with that he turns away like he'd exhausted the subject.
But this gives me an idea. Maybe he could be hired to coach Royce.