But after we'd been hailed by this lonesome lookin' party in baggy pants and the faded blue yachtin' cap, and we'd let him lead us past the stone foundations where a fine crop of weeds was coming up, and he'd herded us into his shack and was tryin' to spring a blueprint prospectus on us, F. Hallam sort of put his foot in his mouth by remarkin':
"So you are Private Ben Riggs, are you?"
"I was—once," says he. "Now I'm just Sand-Lot Riggs. Who are you?"
"Oh, pardon me," puts in Mr. Robert. "I thought you would know. This is Mr. Hallam Bean, the celebrated founder of the Revertist school of art."
"Oh, yes!" said Riggs. "The one who painted the corset picture ad."
"Soap picture," I corrects hasty, "featurin' the Countess Zecchi."
"That's so, it was soap," admits Riggs. "And I was noticin' in the mornin' paper how the Countess had decided to drop them suits."
"What?" says Hallam, starin' at him. "Where was that? On the front page?"
"No," says Riggs. "It was a little item on the inside mixed up with the obituary notes. That's always the way. They start you on the front page, and then——" Private Ben shrugs his shoulders. But he proceeds to add hasty, with a shrewd squint at Hallam: "Course, it's different with you. Say, how about buyin' the estate here? I'd be willin' to let it go cheap."
"No, thank you," says F. Hallam, crisp.