“Lots of things. A letter for you, to begin with.”
“From whom?”
“Your Uncle Allen Miller.”
“But he doesn’t know I’m here, does he?”
“The whole world knows you’re here, dear boy,” replied Whitley, pulling the latest issue of the Encampment Herald out of his pocket. “Why, you’ve become famous—a director of the great smelting corporation.” And he flourished the journal aloft.
“Who sent you that paper?”
“Major Buell Hampton, of course. At least he sent it to your uncle.”
“Get out. You’re kidding, Whitley.”
“No kidding about me, old man. Those irresponsible days are now over.” Whitley drew himself up with great dignity. “If Buell Hampton hasn’t told you that he came to Keokuk and made the acquaintance of Banker Allen Miller, well, that’s his affair, not mine. Where shall we have dinner? I’m as hungry as a grizzly.”
“Wait a moment, Whitley. Do you mean to tell me Uncle Allen knows the Major?”