"
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.
"I got you placed now," said Steve, regarding him with interest.
"You're not going to turn into an ambassador or an artist or any of
them things. You're going to be the greatest district attorney that
ever came down the pike."
Chapter XIV
The Sixty-First Street Cyclone
It was past seven o'clock when Kirk, bending over the wheel, with
Mamie at his side came in sight of the shack.
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