The red-headed boy grinned.
"Mebby not, Tow-head," said he, "but here's a chance for you to put me wise."
"Ret-head yourseluf!" returned Carl. "Vat I pud you vise aboudt?"
"Why, by letting me know whether that chair is the one usually occupied by Matt King, the three-ply wonder of the racing world who is sometimes called Motor Matt?"
Carl braced up in his chair and glowered.
"Vas you making some chokes?" he demanded. "I skelp anypody vat makes some chokes aboudt Modor Matt."
"So will I. Why, Matt used to be my pard."
"Iss dot so?" queried Carl, softening. "Vell, he iss my bard yet. Ah, ha! Vat iss der name vat you go by?"
"Mark McReady, otherwise Reddy McReady, otherwise just plain Chub."
Carl gurgled delightedly, let go his knife and fork and reached over the top of the castor to grab Chub McReady's hand.