"How old may you be, Clem?" Mr. Snowdon inquired genially, when they had been alone together for a few minutes.
"What’s that to you? Guess."
"Why, let me see; you was not much more than a baby when I went away. You’ll be eighteen or nineteen, I suppose."
"Yes, I’m nineteen—last sixth of February. Pity you come too late to give me a birthday present, ain’t it?"