"I've been walking up and down before the entrance for an hour. The butler asked me in, but I hate walls and roof. The open for me—the wide, wide open!"
"Not so loud," growled Arkwright. "The family's in bed. Wait till we get to my part of the house."
When they were there, with doors closed and the lights on, Craig exhaled his breath as noisily as a blown swimmer. "What a day! What a day!" he half-shouted, dropping on the divan and thrusting his feet into the rich and rather light upholstery of a near-by chair.
Grant eyed the feet gloomily. He was proud of his furniture and as careful of it as any old maid.
"Go ahead, change your clothes," cried Josh. "I told your motorman not to go away."
"What do you mean?" Arkwright demanded, his temper boiling at the rim of the pot.
"I told him before you got out. You see, we're going to New York to-night—or rather this morning. Train starts at one o'clock. I met old Roebuck at the White House to-night—found he was going by special train—asked him to take us."
"Not I," said Arkwright. "No New York for me. I'm busy to-morrow. Besides, I don't want to go."
"Of course you don't," laughed Craig, and Arkwright now noted that he was in the kind of dizzy spirits that most men can get only by drinking a very great deal indeed. "Of course you don't. No more do I. But I've got to go—and so have you."
"What for?"