He was at my elbow, but he roared just the same.

Skipper of a coaster in his early days, he had never outgrown the habit of pitching his voice to carry above a fifty-mile gale.

"Hey, Ros.
See here; I want to talk to you." I did not want to talk with any one, particularly with him.

He was the individual who, according to Lute, had bracketed Mr.Rogers and myself as birds of a feather, the remark which was primarily responsible for my ill humor of the morning.

If he had not said that, and if Lute had not quoted the saying to me, I might have behaved less like a fool when that automobile overtook me, I might not have given that young idiot, whose Christian name it seemed was Victor, the opportunity to be smart at my expense.