them. Come on."

They walked up the platform to where Sir Thomas stood smoking a
meditative cigar and watching in a dispassionate way the efforts of
his wife to bully the solitary porter attached to the station into a
frenzy. Sir Thomas was a very tall, very thin man, with cold eyes, and
tight, thin lips. His clothes fitted him in the way clothes do fit one
man in a thousand. They were the best part of him. His general
appearance gave one the idea that his meals did him little good, and
his meditations rather less. His conversation--of which there was not
a great deal--was designed for the most part to sting. Many years'
patient and painstaking sowing of his wild oats had left him at
fifty-six with few pleasures; but among those that remained he ranked
high the discomfiting of his neighbors.

"This is my friend Pitt, uncle," said Spennie, presenting Jimmy with a
motion of the hand.

Sir Thomas extended three fingers. Jimmy extended two, and the
handshake was not a success.

At this point in the interview, Spike came up, chuckling amiably, with
a magazine in his hand.

"P'Chee!" said Spike. "Say, Mr. Chames, de mug what wrote dis piece
must ha' bin livin' out in de woods for fair. His stunt ain't writin',
sure. Say, dere's a gazebo what wants to get busy wit' de heroine's
jools what's locked in de drawer in de dressin' room. So dis mug, what
do youse t'ink he does? Why----"