"Say, what--look here, I asked you--" Then the young man in the tonneau took charge of the conversation.

He was a very young man, with blond hair and a silky mustache, and his clothes fitted him as clothes have no right to fit--on Cape Cod.
"That'll do, Oscar," he ordered.

Then, turning to me, he said: "See here, my man, we want to go to Bayport." I was not his man, and wouldn't have been for something.

The chauffeur had irritated me, but he irritated me more.

I didn't like him, his looks, his clothes, and, particularly, his manner.