'Same as crinkly. Well, see here. You remember what we was talking
about last night about germs?'
'Yes.'
'Well, that's one thing germs never do, eat bread out of crinkly paper.
You want to forget all the dope they shot into you back in New York and
start fresh. You do what I tell you and you can't go wrong. If you're
going to be a regular germ, what you've got to do is to wrap yourself
round that bread-and-milk the quickest you can. Get me? Till you do
that we can't begin to start out to have a good time.'
William Bannister made no more objections. He attacked his meal with an
easy conscience, and about a quarter of an hour later leaned back with
a deep sigh of repletion.
Steve, meanwhile had entered into conversation with the lady of the
house.
'Say, I guess you ain't got a kid of your own anywheres, have you?'
'Sure I have,' said the hostess proudly. 'He's out in the field with
his pop this minute. His name's Jim.'
'Fine. I want to get hold of a kid to play with this kid here. Jim
sounds pretty good to me. About the same age as this one?'
'For the Lord's sake! Jim's eighteen and weighs two hundred pounds.'
'Cut out Jim. I thought from the way you spoke he was a regular kid.
Know any one in these parts who's got something about the same weight
as this one?'
The farmer's wife reflected.
'Kids is pretty scarce round here,' she said. 'I reckon you won't get
one that I knows of. There's that Tom Whiting, but he's a bad boy. He
ain't been raised right.'
'What's the matter with him?'
'I don't want to speak harm of no one, but his father used to be a low
prize-fighter, and you know what they are.'
Steve nodded sympathetically.
'Regular plug-uglies,' he said. 'A friend of mine used to have to mix
with them quite a lot, poor fellah! He used to say they was none of
them truly refined. And this kid takes after his pop, eh? Kind of
scrappy kid, is that it?'
'He's a bad boy.'
'Well, maybe I'd better look him over, just in case. Where's he to be
found?'
'They live in the cottage by the big house you can see through them
trees. His pop looks after Mr. Wilson's prize dawgs. That's his job.'
'What's Wilson?' asked the White Hope, coming out of his stupor.
'You beat me to it by a second, kid. I was just going to ask it
myself.'
'He's one of them rich New Yawkers. He has his summer place here, and
this Whiting looks after his prize dawgs.'
'Well, I guess I'll give him a call. It's going to be lonesome for my
kid if he ain't got some one to show him how to hit it up. He's not
used to country life. Come along. We'll get into the bubble and go and
send your pop a telegram.'
'What's telegram?' asked William Bannister.
