“Poor old uncle,” murmured Roderick, affectionately and regretfully.
“Oh, he takes all the blame to himself for having driven you away from home. But here—let’s get into this quiet corner, man. You haven’t yet heard half my news.”
The two chums were soon installed on a seat conveniently masked—for other purposes, no doubt—by pot plants and flowers.
“And how’s dear Aunt Lois?” asked Roderick, as they settled themselves.
“Oh, dear Aunt Lois can wait,” replied Whitley.
“She’s all right—don’t look a day older since I remember her. It is I who am the topic of importance—I”—and he tapped his chest in the fervency of his egoism.
“Well, fire away,” laughed Roderick.
Whitley rambled on: “Well, I was just going to tell you how your uncle and I have been pulling along together fine. After stopping me in the street two or three times to ask me whether I had yet got news of you, he ended in offering me a position in the bank.”
“Gee whizz!”
“Oh, don’t look so demed superior. Why, man alive. I’m a born banker—a born man of affairs! So at least your uncle tells me in the intervals of asking after you.”