“I get you,” said Larry. “Leave it to me.”
The scene shifts to the following afternoon at Claridge’s. The well-meaning Larry appeared. The chief plotter called him across the restaurant and he was duly presented to Miss Ferguson and by invitation took a seat. His friend took up the thread of his narrative.
“I was just saying to Miss Ferguson,” he explained, “that last Sunday I was out at my little place in the country. . . .”
“Place in the country,—huh!” broke in Larry. “Listen to that, will you, lady, he calls it a place in the country. It’s an estate, that’s what it is—a regular estate, that’s all.”
The suitor smiled tolerantly and went on.
“Well, anyhow,” he resumed, “I was out there at my shack. . . .”
“Ain’t that just like you?” proclaimed Larry. “Shack, huh? It’s a palace, that’s all—a palace, I’ll tell the world.”
“No matter, old man,” continued his friend. “What I was going to say was that I called the maid, and I told her. . . .”
“You called the maid?” clarioned the co-conspirator. “Why don’t you say you called one of the maids. Near as I remember, you’ve got five or six maids hanging ’round that palace, not to mention a couple of butlers.”
“Have it your own way, old chap,” resumed the slick-haired one. “I called one of the maids, if you prefer to put it that way, and I told her to bring me some burnt sugar and some hot water and a little whiskey. You see, I’ve got a cold——”