One of the scraggly rogues turned to his companion.
“Say, Saxy, was the last town, where we spent a week at the leading hotel, Bath or Christmas Cove?”
“Naw; it was Boothby Harbor,—what guff are ye giving us?”
“It is a small matter,” said the doctor; “what is your purpose in calling here?”
“Jes’ to show our respects, boss; we haven’t our cards wid us, but me name is Buzy Biggs and my valet here is Saxy Hutt, late from Washington, where he’s been serving as aide to the President.”
“Whither are you bound?”
“We haven’t made up our minds whether to accept a invite to lecture afore the Boston Lyceum or to go on to New York and give the folks a talk on the Whichness of the Which. But that ain’t nyther here nur there. We have been walking since daylight and hain’t had a mouthful of grub since yesterday afternoon.”
“We cannot let any one go away from our door hungry,” broke in Mrs. Spellman, laying aside her fancy work and flitting into the kitchen department.
“I don’t see how you’re going to help it,” called her husband, “when you undertake to give a couple of tramps all they can eat. They are like dogs—always hungry.”
“Ain’t ye a little rough, boss, on a gentleman?” asked Biggs, with an ominous glint in his piglike eyes.