“I’ve got a place for you at my table,” he said, getting up.
“Oh, thank you, but I have a seat already.”
“That don’t matter, it won’t go beggin’. I’m lookin’ out for you all right,” he assured her, as though he had heard himself accused of neglect. “I was up till five this mornin’, so I slept late, or I’d been around before.”
“It is very good of you, but I’ve got quite a good place. I won’t change, thank you.”
“Oh, come now, don’t be huffy. How could I tell you’d be up at breakfast? Come along, my dear.”
Hildegarde stared at him, and then she said quite gently: “I’m not the least huffy, but I’ll keep the seat I have, thank you.”
“Oh, very well! Very well!” and he took himself off in a state that might, perhaps, be described in his own words as “huffy”—oh, but very huffy indeed.
Before Vancouver’s Island faded out of sight everybody was greatly intrigued to see the men of the British post there signaling the passing ship. What were they doing that for? People ran about the decks asking one another, “What’s happened?” It was an exciting moment, for this communication, whatever it was, would be the last the Los Angeles’ passengers would know for many a day of the great world’s happenings. A boom of cannon came across the water. The news filtered down from the bridge: “Lord Roberts has entered Pretoria!”
“And that’s the last human sign,” said ex-Governor Reinhart, “till we sight the ships at Nome.”
“Or, better still,” amended one of the first table financiers, “the last till we signal to the Nomites: The fleet’s behind! We’ve won the race. ’Rah! for the Los Angeles!” The betting had already begun. The run was to be anything from a week to a month.