“But not sleep as well, perhaps,” said Austen.
“Say, Aust, you're not on the level with me.”
“I hope to reach that exalted plane some day, Ham.”
“What's got into you?” demanded the usually clear-headed Mr. Tooting, now a little bewildered.
“Nothing, yet,” said Austen, “but I'm thinking seriously of having a sandwich and a piece of apple pie. Will you come along?”
They crossed the square together, Mr. Tooting racking a normally fertile brain for some excuse to reopen the subject. Despairing of that, he decided that any subject would do.
“That Humphrey Crewe up at Leith is smart—smart as paint,” he remarked. “Do you know him?”
“I've seen him,” said Austen. “He's a young man, isn't he?”
“And natty. He knows a thing or two for a millionaire that don't have to work, and he runs that place of his right up to the handle. You ought to hear him talk about the tariff, and national politics. I was passing there the other day, and he was walking around among the flowerbeds. 'Ain't your name Tooting?' he hollered. I almost fell out of the buggy.”
“What did he want?” asked Austen, curiously. Mr. Tooting winked.