The cook kept him waiting an hour, but she rewarded him with such a breakfast as he could not have bought at the best hotel. The choicest honeydew melon, griddle cakes, home-cooked ham, coffee, and even fried potatoes. It made the young man think of the meals his mother cooked on the farm.
Just as he was finishing his second cup of coffee, Miss Carlton appeared, followed immediately by Linda and Amy.
The boy stood up and flushed a vivid red in a vain effort to murmur apologies and explanations. It was plain to be seen that he was from the country, and that this was his first newspaper job.
“My name’s Michael O’Malley,” he finally said, producing a card from his pocket. “And the paper is going to give me a tryout on this story; I can stay as long as I like, provided I get something interesting.” He was talking very fast now, almost as if he were afraid to stop, lest Miss Carlton put him out. “You see, I’m crazy about detective stories, and this seems like a chance to do some real sleuthin’. If we can only find the young lady’s family, and run down that guy that ran her down!”
Linda smiled. She couldn’t help liking the boy; he was so sincere, so earnest, so eager to please.
“Sit down again, Mr. O’Malley,” she said; “while we eat our breakfast, we’ll talk it over.”
“Thank you, Miss Carlton,” he breathed, reverently. He treated Linda as if she were some sort of goddess.
“And have some more griddle cakes,” urged Miss Carlton, hospitably. She, too, liked the boy.
He grinned.
“You know, they taste exactly like my mother’s!” he exclaimed. “I never found anybody who could make ’em like this except her. We lived on a farm, you see—and there were five boys. And maybe my mother couldn’t cook!”