The big man got up heavily, his face red, and refused to eat. “That settles it!” he growled. “I’d like to know what you keep a hotel for?”
“To feed people,” said the waitress, wearily. She had evidently experienced a like incident before.
“That’s Jim Brady!” whispered Agnes, in excitement, to Neale O’Neil.
Neale sat near a window. When the politician from Milton had stamped out, Neale peered around the window blind. The big French car was standing before the hotel.
“But say! that isn’t the freckled-faced fellow with him,” Agnes declared, peering around the other side of the window frame.
“No. New chauffeur. There they go—aiming for home. Guess he’s left Saleratus Joe somewhere.”
“I’d just like to know where,” sighed Agnes, returning reluctantly to her supper.
By the time supper was over Sammy was again nodding like one of those mechanical figures shop-keepers sometimes put in their show windows to attract attention. Neale had almost to carry him up to the bedroom, and did have to help him undress after he was there.
“Cricky!” ejaculated the flaxen-haired youth, “I didn’t start out on this tour with the expectation of nursing along a child, as well as an automobile. I’m going to have a lot of fun myself if I’ve got to play nursemaid for this kid.”
Neale was really good-natured, however, and, for all his scolding, he helped Sammy off with his clothing gently enough. As Ruth had threatened, there was a bath made ready for Sammy, and that rite had to be administered before the sleepy little boy could creep between the sheets.