and took from his pocket a short thick pipe and lighted it.
"Now John," he smiled, "just finish up those jam puffs. Don't leave one, or my landlady will eat it, and she has double chins enough. I want to talk to you as man to man."
Man to man! How I wished that Angel could see me, being made the confidant of Harry! I helped myself to my third jam puff with an air of cool deliberation.
"Now—" Harry leant across the table, his eyes on mine, "What sort of looking man would you expect my father to be, John?"
I studied Harry and hazarded—"A brown face, and awfully thin, and greenish eyes, and crinkly brown hair."
"Wrong!" cried Harry, smiting the table. "My father's got a full pink face, the bluest of eyes and a fine head of white hair, which, I am afraid I helped to whiten, worse luck!"
"He sounds nice," I commented.
"He is. Now what do you suppose my father does, John?"
"Not a pirate!" but I said it hopefully.
"Far from it. He's a bishop."
"Hurray!" I cried. "Our best friend is a bishop. He lives right next door to us."
"The very man," said Harry. "He's my father."
[166]
