"Hello!" says I. "The neighbors seem to be holdin' a convention. Wonder if they're plannin' to count me in?"
I ain't more'n got that out before one of the bunch cuts loose and heads for me. He was a nice-lookin' old duck, with a pair of white Chaunceys and a frosted chin-splitter. He stepped out brisk and swung his cane like he was on parade. He was got up in white flannels and a square-topped Panama, and he had the complexion of a good liver.
"I expect that this is Mr. McCabe," says he.
"You're a good guesser," says I. "Come up on the front stoop and sit by."
"My name," says he, "is Binger, Curtis Binger."
"What, Major Binger, late U. S. A.?" says I. "The man that did the stunt at the battle of What-d'ye-call-it?"
"Mission Ridge, sir," says he, throwin' out his chest.
"Sure! That was the place," says I. "Well, well! Who'd think it? I'm proud to know you. Put 'er there."
With that I had him goin'. He was up in the air, and before he'd got over it I'd landed him in a porch rocker and chased Dennis in to dig a box of Fumadoras out of my suit-case.
"Ahem," says the Major, clearin' his speech tubes, "I came over, Mr. McCabe, on rather a delicate errand."