“You, I reckon,” laughed Frank. “No, they were not up when I called, and did not know that you were not right in your own little downy cot. So it’s all right. Come on in and eat. I suppose it is nothing in your lives that I am starving. Oh, no; what’s that to you?”
“Well, lead on, lead on!” cried Eddie. “I hope you got a good breakfast. I am starved.”
“Waffles,” said Frank briefly.
“Wow!” cried Eddie, and the boys were at the table before you could think. Now the Wolfe cook was a waffle artist. And when you had had six or eight of her waffles, crisply brown, light as feathers, swimming in real maple syrup, why, then you were just ready for a good start. And she loved to cook for hungry boys, loved to see them eat. But this morning was the triumph of her life. Never had any boys in that house eaten so much or praised the waffles so loudly.
After breakfast, Frank went out and looked his car over, and “tuned her up,” and the boys showed him the message they had picked up.
An hour later, Ernest wandered across the Park as though he had not a worry in the world. He was alone and, greeting them in the most casual and off-hand way, he watched Frank tinker with a brake for a moment or two, heard the news, then asked, “Wonder if I can go in and wash up, Frank?”
“Sure,” said Frank, dropping his tools and leading the way toward the house. “Have you had breakfast?”
“Back in Cincinnati,” Ernest assured him.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Frank demanded, “Where did you leave the kid?”
“Up at Taylor in the Provost Marshal’s office,” answered Ernest. “He is all right. The Intelligence Department took it up with the Department of Justice on the long distance. Result is five secret service men are on their way here by the fast train. They will arrive about noon.”