“Oh, Clem!” She hugged him.
“Oh, Felice!” He hugged her. “Where’s that time-table? I saw a folder around here the other day. If we caught a morning train out of the junction tomorrow we might get in in time for the Baxters’ party tomorrow night. Everybody we know—and like—will be there.”
“But you know it’s a costume party—fancy dress. And we haven’t any costumes.”
Airily he gestured away her quavering objections. “Say, do you know one thing?” he said. “This place is incomplete. It needs a motto. If I had time to spare I’d write one out and stick it up as a souvenir of our visit. I’d write on it the words ‘E Pluribus Your’n,’ meaning: ‘It’s all for you, dear Rousseau, the Bugbees have had enough.’... Now then, if I could just find that time card? Oh, there it is, yonder behind the clock. We can put in the rest of the night packing, and bright and early tomor—”
He broke off, listening. From without came the advancing sound of slushy foot-treads in a considerable number.
The tramping drew nearer and ended just outside. Masculine voices were uplifted in song:
“Hark-k, the herald angels sing,
Glor-y to the—”
“That ain’t right—wrong key!” they heard a dominating voice cutting in to check the vocal flow. “Git set fur a fresh start.”
“My Christmas minstrels,” said Mrs. Bugbee.