A uniformed youth with black hair detached himself from the group and hurried to obey. But he did not move in the direction of the dining-room. Instead, having ascended to the porch, he headed in an opposite direction and made off at a brisk pace.
"I'll attend to him," said the boatman hurriedly to Rosalind. "It's all right. Beat it, you! Take off that badge and make yourself scarce. That's what I'm going to do as soon as I interview our enterprising young friend. See you to-morrow, maybe. Don't worry—pal."
He was gone down the porch. Rosalind looked after him doubtfully. Then, with a swift movement, she tore the red badge from her dress, concealed it in her hand, and moved off in an opposite direction.
There was nothing more to be done save escape. The enterprise was on the knees of the gods. Only one thing was certain—Mr. Schmidt, of Chicago, would never desecrate the property of a princess.
In a dark angle of the porch a wriggling boy in uniform was pinned against the wall by a sinewy hand that grasped his shoulder none too gently.
"Fork it out!" hissed the boatman.
"I—I—"
"You little crook, I saw you! Come on! Kick in with it!"
"But I didn't mean—honest!"
"Produce! I don't care what you meant. I saw you pipe it, you young burglar! Ah—I thought so!"