“Well,” said Hugh, rising, “I mustn’t take any more of your time, Mr. Ogden. I had forgotten there were dinners like that in the world, and I thank you, I’m sure, for bothering yourself.” He held out his hand, but his host took him by the sleeve.
“Don’t be in a hurry, old man,” he said. “The party isn’t over yet. Have you any best girl you want to go to see?”
“Divil a girl. I called up one that I’d met one evening, and asked if I could drop in, and she said, ‘Certainly,’ and went on to ask what we were going to do—what were we going to see? ‘Good-night,’ said I, and hung up with a click. My first and last offense.”
John Ogden laughed. “Sit down, then, if there is no meeting of the Reds to-night.”
Hugh laughed and dropped back into his chair.
“I’ve had an idea,” said his friend. “You liked the dinner. How would you like to have one like that every night?”
“Foolish question number 13,” responded Hugh.
“I know a way you can get it.”
“Well”—the boy regarded his dignified companion curiously—“so do I; but Bolshevism and safe-cracking aren’t the same thing.”
“A sufficient number of good dinners cure Bolshevism, I’ve noticed,” said Ogden. “I have hopes of you if you will do what I say.”