As I was thinking what to say, he moved away, but suddenly returned again.
"What made you think Tournelli had been up to anything ?" he asked sharply.
"Nothing," I answered; "I only thought you and he, being friends"-- "You mean we're both waiters in the same restaurant.

Well, I don't know him any better than I know that chap over there," pointing to the other waiter.

"He's a Greaser or an Italian, and, I reckon, goes with his kind." Why had we not thought of this before?
Nothing would be more natural than that the rich and imperious Tournelli should be exclusive, and have no confidences with his enforced associates.

And it was evident that Tom had noticed it and was jealous.
"I suppose he's rather a swell, isn't he ?" I suggested tentatively.
A faint smile passed over Tom's face.

It was partly cynical and partly suggestive of that amused toleration of our youthful credulity which seemed to be a part of that discomposing patronage that everybody extended to the Club.