Harold regarded him with doubled interest. Yes, he looked like a less mature edition of the great Chester.
"Brother of Chester Trask?" Harold asked.
"Why, yes," admitted the diner. "My name's Leonard. Have you met my brother?"
"I should say I have," Harold replied heartily. "We had a great time in Cleveland together when he was out there this Spring."
"Is that so?" the younger Trask said with greatly increased cordiality. "Well, I'm mighty pleased to meet any friend of my brother's. This is Joe Bartlett and this red-headed chap is Don Haddon. And your name's—"
"Lamb. Harold Lamb."
"Oh, yes, I remember now. You're the chap who knocked 'em dead with the jig this afternoon. The one they all started calling 'Speedy.'"
Trask spoke with the careful accent that one acquires at our more frightfully expensive preparatory schools. His friends, when later they joined in the conversation, affected the same aristocratic drawl. They were extremely well groomed, rather supercilious youngsters. If Tate took some of the conceit out of them, as colleges have the habit of doing, given half a chance, they might turn into worthy citizens of the better as well as
