The Secret Adversary

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"Good morning," said Tommy amiably. "You have NOT used Pear's soap, I
see."

Conrad growled threateningly.

"No light repartee, have you, old bean? There, there, we can't always
have brains as well as beauty. What have we for lunch? Stew? How did I
know? Elementary, my dear Watson--the smell of onions is unmistakable."

"Talk away," grunted the man. "It's little enough time you'll have to
talk in, maybe."

The remark was unpleasant in its suggestion, but Tommy ignored it. He
sat down at the table.

"Retire, varlet," he said, with a wave of his hand. "Prate not to thy
betters."