"Oh, that accounts for it," says I, and Pembroke went through some motions with his cheeks like he was tryin' to blow soap bubbles up in the air. Well, it seems that mother has been worryin' a lot over keepin' Langdon amused. Think of it, in a town like this! "He detests business," says she, "and he doesn't care for theatres, or going to clubs, or reading, or society. But his poor dear father didn't care for any of those things either, except business. And Langdon hasn't any head for that. All he takes an interest in is his machine." "Singer or Remington?" says I. "Why, his auto, of course. He's perfectly devoted to that," says she; "but the police are so dreadfully particular. Oh, they make such lots of trouble for Langdon, and get him into such stupid scrapes. Don't they, Pembroke?" Pembroke didn't blink at that. He nods twice. "It just keeps me worried all the time," she goes on. "It isn't that I mind paying the absurd fines, of course; but--well, you can understand. No one knows what those horrid officers will do next, they're so unreasonable. Just think, that is the poor boy's only pleasure! So I thought that if we could only get Langdon interested in something of an athletic nature--he's a splendid boxer, you know--oh, splendid!" "That's different," says I. "You might send him down a few times and----" "Oh, but I want you to meet him first," says she, "and arouse his enthusiasm. He would never go if you didn't. I expect he will be in soon, and then-- Why, that must be Langdon now!" It might have been an axe brigade from the district attorney's office, or a hook and ladder company, by the sound. I didn't know whether he was comin' through the doors or bringin' 'em in with him. As I squints around I sees the egg eyed butler get shouldered into the hall rack; so I judges that Langdon must be in something of a hurry. He gets over it, though, for he stamps into the middle of the room, plants his feet wide apart, throws his leather cap with the goggles on into a chair, and chucks one of them greasy bootleg gloves into the middle of the tea tray. "Hello, maw!" he growls. "Hello, Fatty! You here again?" Playful little cuss, Langdon was. He's about five feet nine, short necked, and broad across the chest. But he's got a nice face--for a masked ball--eyes the colour of purple writin' ink, hair of a lovely ripe tomato shade growin' down to a peak in front and standin' up stiff and bristly; a corrugated brow, like a washboard; and an undershot jaw, same's a bull terrier. Oh, yes, he was a dear boy, all right. In his leggin's and leather coat he looks too cute for any use. "Who's this?" says he, gettin' sight of me sittin' sideways on the stuffed chair. "Why, Langdon dear," says maw, "this is Professor McCabe. I was speaking to you of him, you know."