“Come in, Tommy, I’m just gettin’ something ready for that Mexican, but there’s plenty for you,” said Mrs. Van.
“Where’d you put the feller?”
“In Hard’s office,” said Scott. “Will you cart him his grub, Matt?”
“You said I might. I want to,” protested Polly.
“Certainly.” Scott handed her the key ceremoniously. “You’ve earned the right to have your own way to-night, but Matt goes with you. He’s not above throttling you to make a getaway.”
“It’s a funny world,” mused Polly, as she walked along beside Matt, who carried the tray balanced aloft on one outstretched palm. “Three weeks ago I was going to teas at the Blackstone; now I’m carrying grub to a Mexican bandit with the assistance of a fireman. How awfully well you carry that tray!” she said, admiringly.
“Sure! Learned to do that one winter in Minneapolis when I was out of a job. Handy sort of thing to know.”
“Oh!” gasped the girl. Then to herself: “Why should I think it queer? Cousin Ben put himself through college by waiting on the students at table and we thought he had a lot of pep to do it.”
“You go on up and holler to the guy that we’re coming but don’t you open the door till I get there. He might paste you one.”
Polly complied. She sprang up the stairs with a freedom of motion that won O’Grady’s silent admiration.