"It's a thrillin' sport," says I. "And, by the way, there's a young chap due to show up here soon. I wonder if you've seen him around before,—young Hammond?"
"I beg pardon," says he, "but do you refer to Royce Hammond?"
"That's the guy," says I. "Kind of a husky young hick, eh?"
He stares at me cold and disapprovin'. "I am Royce Hammond!" says he.
You could have bought me for a yesterday's rain check. "Wha-a-at!" says I, gawpin'. "You—you are——"
Say, come to look him over close, I might have known he was no ten-a-week process server. He's costumed neat but expensive, and his lily-white hands are manicured to the last notch. Nice lookin' youth he is, with a good head on him and a fine pair of shoulders. And for conversation he uses the kind of near-English accent you hear along the Harvard Gold Coast. Cul-chaw? Why, it fairly dripped from Royce, like moisture from the ice water tank on a hot day!
"Excuse," says I. "I'm Professor McCabe, and I was only——"
"Oh, yes," says he, sighin' weary, "I understand. Something absurd about a will, isn't it? Mother is quite keen over it; and I wish she wouldn't, you know."
"Eh?" says I, a bit dizzy from tryin' to follow him.
"Oh, I've no doubt you mean well enough," he goes on; "but we cawn't accept favors from utter strangers—really, we cawn't. And besides, old Gordon was such a rotter!"