“I bet you we have ice cream—I seen Mr. Daner orderin’ it!” avowed Hen, by his abundance of enthusiasm atoning for his lack of grammar.
“Gee! I hope it’s chocolate!” you exclaimed.
“Or strawberry an’ vaniller mixed!” supplemented Hen, with a smack of anticipation.
You “geed” again, and offered an unvoiced prayer that, whatever the flavor or flavors, the dishes be large.
On ahead was disclosed the house of the party. It was lighted from top to bottom, and at the impressive sight your courage, buoyed in vain by ice-cream, chocolate, or strawberry and vanilla mixed, began to sink.
“You go in first,” you suggested to Hen.
“Naw, sir! You!” objected Hen. “You know ’em better’n I do.”
“But I’ll keep right close behind. Honest, I will,” you promised.
“You wouldn’t, either. You’d run off and leave me alone!” accused Hen, suspicious and diffident.
With the question of precedence still unsettled, slowly and more slowly you and he approached. Hanging to the palings of the fence, in front, were the luckless (and invidious) uninvited; among them Snoopie Mitchell, of course. Snoopie never missed anything, if within his reach, and he wore the same clothes wherever he went, be it fishing or into the crème de la crème of civilization.