“You bet we do,” he agreed. “But you may grow tired of the noise.”
“Oh, that’s just fine,” declared Freda enthusiastically. “If Sadie Grote wants to use the piano she can wait till we get through. Music is only music. But this book is going to be an event, mind you, Gertrude.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t, my dear.”
“You’d better not, either.”
“Little did I think,” said Mrs. Manton in her low voice, putting down her dishes on the table, and facing the two with gentle cynicism, “that my humble abode would be the scene of authorship. Take my unbounded approval as granted.”
“Shut up!” said Mauney.
“It’s only what might be expected,” remarked Fred Stalton, who was commencing his own Christmas holidays. He was lounging, as of old, in his shirt sleeves, enjoying the first respite for months. “You know, Gert, it’s a wonderful little home. It has seen some queer stunts pulled off. You remember we once harbored a man named Jolvin here. He evidently drew a lucky card when he signed on our staff as boarder. That bird drew a half million touch. There’s luck in seventy-three. Take my word for it. I’m not jolted to find that a book is going to be written here either. I’ll buy one of the first copies. And there’s another stunt going to be pulled off in a couple of weeks, too.”
“You don’t tell me,” purred Mrs. Manton. “What is it, pray?”
“Sadie Grote is going to get married!”
“Well, for heaven’s sake,” quoth the landlady, dropping into a chair and pulling her kimona about her. “When did Sadie decide to join the ranks of the tormented?”