Pat, disgruntled and irritable to the point of profanity,—he was a privileged character and might have sworn if he felt like it without receiving notice,—came shambling up the cottage walk late that afternoon, bearing two large, shoulder-sagging bundles. He had walked from the station,—a matter of half-a-mile,—and it was hot. His employer sat in the shady porch, viewing his approach.
"Have you got them?" he inquired.
Pat dropped the bundles on the lower step and stared, speechless. Then he mopped his drenched, turkey-red face with his handkerchief. He got his breath after a spell of contemptuous snorting.
"Have I got what?" he demanded sarcastically. "The measles?"
"The STUDIOS, Patrick," said Booth reprovingly.
"No, sor," said Pat; "I came absolutely empty-handed, as you may have seen, sor."
"I knew I couldn't be mistaken. I was confident I saw nothing in your hands."
"I kept thim closed, sor, so's you couldn't see what was r'ally in thim. I've been wid you long enough, sor, to know how you hate the sight av blisthers."
"They must be quite a novelty to you, Patrick. I should think you'd be proud of them."
"Where am I to put them, sor?"