“Well, I’d like to see you, old Bill!”
“Got a date for dinner this evening, Morty?”
“N-no. No, I don’t think I’ve got anything on.” Morton’s voice seemed to sound a doubt. Mr. Wrenn reflected that Morton must be a society person; and he made his invitation highly polite:
“Well, say, old man, I’d be awful happy if you could come over and feed on me. Can’t you come over and meet me, Morty?”
“Y-yes, I guess I can. Yes, I’ll do it. Where’ll I meet you?”
“How about Twenty-eighth and Sixth Avenue?”
“That’ll be all right, Bill. ’Bout six o’clock?”
“Fine! Be awful nice to see you again, old Morty.”
“Same here. Goo’-by.”
Gazing across the table at Miggleton’s, Mr. Wrenn saw, in the squat familiar body and sturdy face of Morton of the cattle-boat, a stranger, slightly uneasy and very quiet, wearing garments that had nothing whatever to do with the cattle-boats—a crimson scarf with a horseshoe-pin of “Brazilian diamonds,” and sleek brown ready-made clothes with ornately curved cuffs and pocket flaps.