“All I want is a bed to sleep in. I haven’t slept in a regular bed for the Lord knows how long. Thank God, I’ll be sleeping in my own to-morrow night.”
He followed the puzzled Mr. Gooch to the kitchen and at once drew a chair up to the stove.
“Where have you been all this time?” murmured Horace, generously replenishing the fire.
“Oh—traveling,” said Mr. Baxter casually. He removed his hat and placed it on the floor beside the chair.
Mr. Gooch leaned over and scrutinized the top of his guest’s head. Then he deliberately felt of it.
“What are you doing?” demanded Mr. Baxter sharply.
“Oh—I was just wondering if—But never mind. Now, Ollie, tell me all about yourself. We’ve been hunting for you all over the—”
Oliver’s cackle interrupted him.
“Like chasing a flea, wasn’t it?” he chuckled. “Before we go any farther,” he went on seriously, “tell me about my boy Oliver. How is he? Hasn’t been hung yet, has he?”
“Not yet,” said Mr. Gooch sententiously. He placed a chair on the opposite side of the stove and sat down.