“What!” ejaculated Whitney Barnes, wheeling open-mouthed and facing his friend.
“The juice, I mean,” Gladwin laughed ruefully, “and, of course, the spell was broken. She never looked again. Dash it all, there’s some sort of a lemon in all my romances!”
“You certainly do play in tough luck,” sympathized Barnes. “I can see that you need bucking up, 68 and I think I’ve got the right kind of remedy for you. Wait, I’ll call Bateato.”
Whitney Barnes stepped briskly across the room and pressed a button. In a twinkling the little Jap appeared.
“Bateato,” said Barnes, “has your master any hunting clothes at the hotel?”
“Ees, sair!” responded the Jap. “Plenty hotel––plenty house. We no time pack all clothes––go sail too quick.”
“Plenty here––splendid!” enthused Barnes. “Pack a bag for him, Bateato, this instant––enough things to last a couple of weeks.”
“What’s all this?” cut in Gladwin. “What are you going to do?”
“Never you mind,” retorted Barnes, importantly; “you do as I say, Bateato––I’m going to show your master some excitement. He’ll never get it here in town.”
“Ees, sair! I pack him queeck,” and Bateato vanished noiselessly, seemingly to shoot through the doorway and up the broad staircase as if sucked up a flue.