“Oh, no, not to say drinks,” said the cheerful one, smiling broadly.
“What’s he doing in the bar then?”
“Just talkin’ to the boys.”
“Then will you go right away and ask him—”
“There’s Harry!” Hildegarde was making signals.
“Well, you’re not much good at finding people,” his mother greeted him. “But we’ve got Blumpitty.”
“Oh, how d’you do,” said Harry, prepared to accept the giant in this rôle. Hildegarde explained, and the final move in the mission was committed to her brother. The ladies were to go home and trust Harry to “bring Blumpitty along.” They were reassured when they saw the giant disposed to accompany the expedition.
Within an hour, there was Blumpitty haled before Mrs. Mar, like a criminal before his judge.
“Well!” Mrs. Mar glanced from her son to the clock. “And you wouldn’t have found him even at this hour but for Hildegarde and me.” Harry’s answer to this (and to Hildegarde’s, “Remember, we must speak low, Mr. Dorn’s room is just above”) was to whisper, as if divulging some tremendous secret, “Mr. Blumpitty.” Then, still more significantly, “My mother.” My mother fastened her bright eyes upon the stranger who had obliged her by responding to her call. Plainly she was not prepossessed. The giant had either been wrong, and Blumpitty did drink (in which case Mrs. Mar was wasting her time), or else the man naturally looked “logy”—a fatal way of looking.
“Please sit down, Mr. Blumpitty,” said Hildegarde, speaking very low. Mr. Blumpitty, more than ever with the air of a mute at a funeral, deposited himself on the extreme edge of a chair.