In all the time that he could spare from his pimples, Horace rehearsed a martyr's air designed to convey to Mr.Croker that though he would suffer in silence he was none the less suffering.

It being precisely Mr.Croker's business to rap out grouches as an expert mechanician taps defective cogs, it happened the day after Peter's meeting with the girl that the worst hopes of Horace were realized.
"Aw, they're always a pickin' on me, Mr.Croker, that's what they are, Mr.Croker," Horace defended himself, preparing to snivel if the occasion seemed to demand it, by taking out his gum and sticking it on the inside of his sleeve.

"I can't handle 'em no faster, Mr.Croker." "Not the way you go at it," Peter assured him.

Anybody could have told by the way he included Mr.Croker in his cheerfulness that there was something between them.

"You turn 'em over too many times and you use too much paper and too much string." Suddenly Peter reddened with embarrassment.