“Very likely,” agreed Madeline, “but I should have been almost positive that he was French.”
“He lisps,” declared Babe. “That’s one thing that adds to the queerness of his talk. Well, what are we going to do next?”
“We might pursue the ghost of Dr. Johnson to his grave in Westminster Abbey,” suggested Madeline. “Graveyards are the logical places to hunt ghosts in, I suppose.”
But John objected. “The very reason I chose Dr. Johnson was so we wouldn’t have to go to any musty old churchyards. I haven’t any use for them or for picture-galleries. Let’s go up to the American Express Office, and by that time it will be late enough to pursue your specialty, Miss Ayres, and drink tea somewhere.”
Billy Benson accepted with alacrity an invitation to join the tea-party. On the way to the Express Office he told Babbie something about his plans for the summer.
“You see, I’m on the Harvard crew,” he explained, “and they’re all coming over later to have a month’s practice on the course here. We row Cambridge in the fall, you know.”
Babbie didn’t know, and inquired eagerly when and where the race was to come off.
“Why, right here, on the regular course up near Hampton,” Billy told her, “and early in September, just before college opens. It’s going to be simply great. Can’t you manage to be on hand?”
Babbie explained that they were going over to France and had meant to sail for home from a French port. “But there isn’t any reason why we shouldn’t come back to England first,” she declared. “I’m going to ask mother if we can’t do that. We could leave a week earlier now, and have a week here in September.”
“Well, as I was saying,” Billy took up his own story, “my roommate was coming with me in June, but he caught the measles from his kid brother—wasn’t that the complete limit of a thing to do?—so I just came along alone. I was afraid if I waited over another boat for him, my guardian might change his mind about letting me go.” Billy smiled pensively. “He can change his mind all he likes now. I’m twenty-one. My birthday was yesterday and I celebrated by cabling home for more money. You see,” he added confidentially, “I’m having some clothes made by a Bond Street tailor.”