“Come in!” he yelled. “I’m not deaf. Come in, you imitation of a real man! You don’t fool me, Chip Merriwell——Wow! Get out o’ here!”
Clancy had thought that it was his chum, but as the door opened wide his voice shot up to a shrill yell. For there, looking in with rolling eyes, was one of the two negresses who acted as waitresses and bell boys at the hotel.
“Get out o’ here!” shrilled Clan, pulling the bedclothes around him. “Can’t you hear? Shut that door! What d’you think I am, a moving-picture show?”
The door shut. From the outside came the voice of the startled negress:
“Ah thought yo’ said to come in, suh. Ah suttinly did!”
“I was wrong,” retorted Clancy, grinning in spite of himself. “I meant to say go climb up the flagpole and kill flies. What do you want?”
“Why, suh, dar’s a gem’man downsta’rs askin’ foh yo’ an Mistuh Merriwell.”
“What’s his name, and what time is it?”
“It’s dat ar McQuade boy. It’s ten o’clock, suh.”
“Send him up,” and Clancy leaped for his clothes. “Great Scott! Ten o’clock! Say, there must be something in this Carsonville air! I haven’t slept as late as this for a month of Sundays.”