“All out. Long way out. Nothin’ doin’ until ten-thirty to-morrow mornin’.” Mr. Burrow thought it inconceivably strange that any one could be facetious at such a time.
“Where’s the telegraph operator?” he inquired coldly.
“Gone to the country. Office closed till to-morrow.”
“I suppose there is some sort of hotel,” suggested the even voice of the girl at his elbow. “If you will take me there I sha’n’t trouble you any farther.”
“But—but——” began Mr. Burrow, then he began again. “But—but——”
The girl threw up her head. She even managed to laugh a little. “Yes?” she questioned sweetly. “You’ve said that four times.”
“But—but——” stammered Mr. Burrow again. The Hon. Alexander was usually regarded as a loquacious man.
“I suppose some day—when I get the perspective on it, it will all be rather humorous,” mused Miss Asheton. “It would make a good farce, wouldn’t it? Only now it doesn’t seem exactly funny.”
Mr. Burrow gave up the problem of articulation. He raised the hood of the car and adjusted something. When he came back he appeared to have regained the power of speech.
“Wait a minute,” he said. His hands were greasy, so he procured a bunch of waste from the tool-box and carefully wiped each digit. Having accomplished this task to his satisfaction, he boldly returned and thrust his right out to Miss Asheton.