"We are in great distress and trouble about something and we believed that you could—that you would help us."
"This is Judge Bogart's daughter," announced one of the boys with the society drawl of the "important" introduction.
The lawyer, standing there, bowed. The moonlight disguised the look of curiosity, of humor, in his eyes; he scanned this awed group in rather fantastic outdoor get-up.
"It's a little late for calling, isn't it?" he suggested; then, seeing a slight resentment on the part of the owl-eyed, whom he instantly recognized as a struggler along his own difficult path of the law, he relented.
"But delightful of you to climb way up here. Rather wicked roads, I'm afraid; some able driving." With a hospitable gesture he led the way to the clearing in front of his house. Few of the young people had been up here before; there were looks of frank curiosity and expressions of wonder that a modern clubman should choose to live in the organ builder's old rookery.
"Well, it has its charm," explained Watts, his grim mouth was humorous, "but I shan't ask you in; not while the moon's like this! Now, if you fellows will drag out rugs and some cushions for the girls——" He was busy receiving his midnight guests, as if all were quite usual.
And quite usual it seemed to the young night hawks. The boys, sitting on stumps, rolled cigarettes or filled pipes; Minga and Gertrude also lit cigarettes, but the former, at Sard's amused glance, tossed hers away; the thing, still smouldering, dropped on some dried pine needles. Shipman slowly turned from the owl-eyed and his look went directly to the little wisp of smoke.
"Your cigarette is still burning," he gestured toward it, then courteously, "I am fire warden here; won't you please put it out?"
It was as if he assumed that a modern girl would prefer to do this herself, but Minga wilfully misunderstood him. The little scarlet figure seated on the log resented the authority back of the deep kind gaze bent upon her. It was a stinging new experience for Minga to be reminded of a duty, an experience like a smart blow on the lithe little body, only it had none of the brutality a blow must have; perhaps that was why it stung. Minga hunched one shoulder; her eyes snapped as she turned away.
"You can put it out yourself," was her pert remark.