“They picked me up on the street,” repeated Bob, with renewed embarrassment.
“You ah certainly most welcome to ouah home,” interrupted Mrs. Allen. “An’ as fo’ pickin’ yo’ up on the street,” she continued, with a smile, “I found a real gold ring on the banquette mahsef once.” Then, as Bob’s confusion deepened, the pleasant voiced woman added, “These young prowlahs ah about to pahtake of some refreshments in the next room.”
“Charlotte,” exclaimed Mrs. Mendez from her rocking chair, “the young gentleman asked me about the old post. Won’t you tell him?”
Bob heard a sigh from Tom, who immediately stepped to his side and whispered:
“Them thah crabs is gittin’ cold. I’ll tell you all about it latah.”
“My own grandfathah helped hew its timbahs,” explained Mrs. Allen. “It is now a fo’gotten monument.”
She was leading the little party into the rear room. Hal, bearing the lamp, nudged Bob with his elbow.
“Cut it out,” he whispered. “Them ducks are all dead an’ gone. Come on. Don’t you hear the crabs shiverin’ with the cold?”
“Some day,” continued Mrs. Allen, “I’ll be glad to tell you the story of the old warehouse. It was wheah colonial day tradahs made fortunes on the gulf as the Hudson Bay Company drew wealth from the Indians of the no’th. It is now a boa’din’ house,” she concluded, with a curious smile. “Perhaps youah mothah would be glad to come and see it?”