“Where are you going?” the editor demanded.
“Van Cortlandt,” the contributor answered; “I’m going to try and get my drive back. I’ve been slicing for a month.”
“Conington Warren has a private eighteen-hole course on his Long Island place,” Crosbeigh said with pride. “I’ve been invited to play.”
“You’re bent on driving me to a life of crime,” Trent exclaimed frowning. “An eighteen-hole private course while I struggle to get a permit for a public one!”
But Anthony Trent did not play golf that afternoon at Van Cortlandt Park. As a matter of fact he never again invaded that popular field of play.
Outside Crosbeigh’s office he was hailed by an old Dartmouth chum, one Horace Weems.
“Just in time for lunch,” said Weems wringing his hand. Weems had always admired Anthony Trent and had it been possible would have remodeled himself physically and mentally in the form of another Trent. Weems was short, blond and perspired profusely.
“Hello, Tubby,” said Trent without much cordiality, “you look as though the world had been treating you right.”
“It has,” said Weems happily. “Steel went to a hundred and twelve last week and it carried me up with it.”
Weems had been, as Trent remembered, a bond salesman. Weems could sell anything. He had an ingratiating manner and a disability to perceive snubs or insults when intent on making sales. He had paid his way through college by selling books. Trent had been a frequent victim.