“Have to be in Antwerp to-morrow at ten,” he explained impressively, and handed Mrs. Hildreth a telegram.
“If you can really speak Dutch and French decently,” it read, “meet me Antwerp, hotel St. Antoine, ten Thursday morning. J. J. Morton.”
“I can’t imagine what he wants of me,” John went on, trying to be perfectly matter of fact, “and I’m dead sure that my Dutch and French won’t suit him, but there’s nothing like trying, so I shall go. See here, which one of you told the governor that I could speak Dutch and French?”
“I did,” Betty confessed, timidly. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Oh, not at all,” said John, who was evidently trying not to appear obnoxiously elated. “The thing I don’t understand is why he believed you. You must have an awful lot of influence with him to make him think that I can do anything. Will you lend me your precious French dictionary for the trip?”
Betty promised and went off to find the book, while the other girls said good-bye, and wished John a successful journey. The telegram, it seemed, had come before he went out for the afternoon, and he had looked up trains and packed, and was starting in a few minutes more for the station.
When Babe got up-stairs, Betty was waiting to waylay her. “I don’t see how I was so stupid,” she said, “but my collar stuck into me and it hurt so while I burrowed around in my trunk tray for my dictionary, that I took it off. Would you mind carrying this to John? I’m afraid he’s in a hurry.”
Babe eyed her suspiciously. “I never knew you to be so absent-minded,” she said.
“If you don’t want to go back, I can ask Madeline.” Betty started toward the door, but Babe reached out a hand for the little dictionary.
“I can go as well as not,” she said, and hurried off.