“Oh, thank you, sir! There IS something you can do for me, if you will be so kind. You see, I can't leave this place, I'm so afraid he'll come and I'll miss him. But—I think there's some mistake. Could you telephone for me?” Billy Neilson was country-bred, and in Hampden Falls all men served all other men and women, whether they were strangers or not; so to Billy this was not an extraordinary request to make, in the least.
William Henshaw smiled.
“Certainly; I shall be very glad to telephone for you. Just tell me whom you want, and what you want to say.”
“Thank you. If you'll call up Mr. William Henshaw, then, of Beacon Street, please, and tell him Billy's come. I'll wait here.”
“Oh, then Billy did come!” cried the man in glad surprise, his face alight. “But where is he? Do YOU know Billy?”
“I should say I did,” laughed Billy, with the lightness of a long-lost child who has found a friend. “Why, I am Billy, myself!”
To William Henshaw the world swam dizzily, and went suddenly mad. The floor rose, and the roof fell, while cars and people performed impossible acrobatic feats above, below, and around him. Then, from afar off, he heard his own voice stammer:
“You—are—B-Billy!”
“Yes; and I'll wait here, if you'll just tell him, please. He's expecting me, you know, so it's all right, only perhaps he made a mistake in the time. Maybe you know him, anyhow.”
With one mighty effort William Henshaw pulled himself sharply together. He even laughed, and tossed his head in a valiant imitation of Billy herself; but his voice shook.