“If I must explain,” says he, “I prefer to continue improving my mind rather than idle away my days.  I’ve never been to college or to any sort of school.  I’ve been tutored at home ever since I can remember.  I did give it up for a time shortly after the death of my father.  I thought that the management of the estate would keep me occupied.  But I have no taste for business—­none at all.  And I found that by leaving my father’s investments precisely as they came to me my affairs could be simplified.  But one must do something.  So I engaged Mr. Tidman.  What if I am nearly thirty?  Is that any reason why I should give up being tutored?  There is so much to learn!  And to-day’s period is especially interesting.  We were just about getting to Thorwald the Bitter.”

“Did you say Biter or Batter?” says I.

“I said Thorwald the Bitter,” repeats Pettigrew.  “One of the old Norse Vikings, you know.”

“Go on, shoot it,” says I.  “What’s the joke?”

“But there’s no joke about it,” he insists.  “Surely you have heard of the Norse Vikings?”

“Not yet,” says I.  “I got my ear stretched, though.”

“Fancy!” remarks T. Waldo, turnin’ to Tidman.

Tidman stares at me disgusted, then hunches his shoulders and grunts, “Oh, well!”

“And now,” says Pettigrew, “it’s nearly time for Epictetus.”

Sounded something like lunch to me, but I wasn’t takin’ any hints.  I’d discovered several things that Waldo didn’t care for, money being among ‘em, and now I was tryin’ to get a line on what he did like.  So I was all for stickin’ around.

“Possibly,” suggests Tidman, smilin’ sarcastic, “our young friend is an admirer of Epictetus.”

“I ain’t seen many of the big games this year,” says I.  “What league is he in?”

“Epictetus,” says Waldo, breakin’ it to me as gentle as he can, “was a Greek philosopher.  We are reading his ‘Discourses.’”

“Oh!” says I.  “Not so close, was I?  Now, what was his line of dope—­something like the Dooley stuff?”

Waldo and Tidman swaps grins, sort of sly and sheepish, like they wasn’t used to indulgin’ in such frivolity.  They seemed to enjoy it, though, and the first thing I know I’m bein’ put through a sort of highbrow third degree, the object being to show up what an empty loft I wear my pink thatch on.

Course, they didn’t have to dig very deep into back-number hist’ry or B. C. best sellers to prove their case, and when an extra chuckle was needed I admit I played up my part for all it was worth.  Honest, they develops into a pair of reg’lar cut-ups, and seems to be havin’ the time of their lives discoverin’ that I thought Cleopatra must be one of the Russian ballet and Francis Bacon a new movie star.

“And yet,” says Waldo, inspectin’ me curious, “your employers intrust you with a ten thousand dollar check.”

“They’ve never got onto me, the way you have,” says I.