“I’ve got a hat to trim for Miss Smeaton, and a dress for Miss Sikes and she wants it to-morrow—but, I’ll try.”
“Thank you,” replied David, depositing the cloth on the counter and opening the door; “I’ll call for it at five.”
From there he went toward the hotel, where he intended to write a letter or two. As he turned the corner some one called:—
“Ross! I say, Ross!”
Startled by the familiarity of the tone rather than by the suddenness of the call, he looked about him in every direction but the right one.
“Hello, Davy!”
The round face and owlish, spectacled eyes of “Wallie” Bascomb, son of the Walter Bascomb, of the Bernard, White & Bascomb Construction Company of Boston, protruded from the second-story window of the hotel opposite.
“Come on up, Davy. I just fell out of bed.”
The face withdrew, and David crossed the street, entered the hotel, and clattered up the uncarpeted stairs.
“Hey! where are you, Wallie?”