"Pshaw, Pinney! You'd grow a bush for the pleasure of beating about it." Maxwell hung his hat on a hook above the table, but sat down fronting Pinney with his overcoat on; it was a well-worn overcoat, irredeemably shabby at the buttonholes. "I'd like some tea," he said to the hostess, "some English breakfast tea, if you have it; and a little toast." He rested his elbows on the table, and took his head between his hands, and pressed his fingers against his temples.
"Headache?" asked Pinney, with the jocose sympathy men show one another's sufferings, as if they could be joked away. "Better take something substantial. Nothing like ham and eggs for a headache."
The other unfolded his paper napkin. "Have you got anything worth while?"
"Lots of public opinion and local color," said Pinney. "Have you?"
"I've been half crazy with this headache. I suppose we brought most of the news with us," he suggested.
"Well, I don't know about that," said Pinney.
"I do. You got your tip straight from headquarters. I know all about it, Pinney, so you might as well save time, on that point, if time's an object with you. They don't seem to know anything here; but the consensus in Hatboro' is that he was running away."
"The what is?" asked Pinney.
"The consensus."
"Anything like the United States Census?"