Westcott was at the door as he spoke. Young Farthing was putting out the light.
“Oh, Johnnie,” the attorney said, with the air of just remembering, “I want to telephone ... ‘long distance.’ I’m afraid it’ll take some time.” He half hesitated.
The boy looked disappointed; he had planned to get over to the fandango in time to see the new dancer. He spoke cheerfully however.
“That’s all right, Mr. Westcott,” he said, and turned up the lamp again.
“Why can’t I lock up, Johnnie?” Westcott asked; “I’ll bring the key up to the hotel when I come.”
“If you wouldn’t mind—” Farthing looked relieved, “Everything’s all right but just turning out the light,” he added.
“All right.” Westcott gave him a little push; “You go on,” he said, cordially; “I can lock the door as hard as you!”
“I guess that’s true, Mr. Westcott,” the boy laughed, and with a relieved “good-night,” he departed, as Westcott was turning toward the telephone-booth.
Half an hour later the attorney was in his own office, boiling water in a tin pail, on top of the little stove, while Barker, warmed and cheered, made great inroads upon the bread and cheese and the tinned meat. Presently Westcott made tea in the pail.
“Seems like old prospecting days, don’t it?” he said with ostentatious cheerfulness, as he filled the tin cup. “I dare say you’ve had your share of them?”