“I say, you better not! Wun Sing’s hen—”
“Monty—quit! Let’s all go ask for a ‘piece’!” cried Leslie, throwing his arm around the “fat boy’s” shoulder and forcing him along with the others.
Herbert pulled out a jew’s-harp—procured nobody knew where—and headed the procession with a vain attempt to render “Yankee Doodle” so that it could be recognized for itself. Then all fell into line, with the laughter and nonsense natural to a company of care free “youngsters” as they were now known all over the premises.
But as they passed a room just beyond Leslie’s own, he poked his head through the window, to demand of Mateo, lying within:
“Any better, boy?”
“Gracias, Señor Leslie. Much better. Only, the hen of Wun Sing; the omelette—Ah! I suffer, si. I groan—I am on fire. The heathen creature and his foul fowl!”
“What’s the matter, Les? Is that your pert valet laid up in yon? What’s up?”
“Rather—what’s down? The boy hasn’t been well, or says he hasn’t these three days. That’s why I had to put off the bear—”
“Mum! Dorothy’s just behind us and she has ears all round her head! But we’ll do it, yet; either with or without him. It’ll be rippin’ fun, but if that girl gets wind of it she’ll stop it, sure.”