Thanking his hostess, Bob was about to enter upon another line of inquiry when Tom caught him by the arm.
“You’ll excuse us, mothah,” said Tom, “but this is a regulah meetin’ night. We ah about to considah impo’tant mattahs.”
“Say,” exploded Hal at once, “can’t you get all o’ that mossy dope you need in the history books?”
“Plenty of it,” laughed Bob, “but that’s at long range. I’m comin’ to-morrow and look all over the old building.”
Tom grunted. “If that’s what yo’ all come to Pensacola fo’, I reckon you’ll have yo’ hands full.”
“You can read all that,” went on Hal. “And, take it from me, there’s too much to do to be nosin’ around lookin’ for Spanish things.”
Bob grinned and pointed to the table and the cooling loaves.
“These aren’t Spanish, are they? I’m ready.”
Tom had just lifted the top off one loaf and the savory steam was welling into the room, when he dropped the section of bread.
“Where’s Mac?” he exclaimed. Then he hastily stuck his head into the parlor. “Mothah,” he called, “where’s Mac Gregory? He went fo’ some pralines.”