Whereat the singer, thus jovially addressed, conferred a wink and a grin upon him and shouted back: “Don’t be so blamed formal—just call me Jane!” and then skillfully picked up the tune again and kept right on tenoring. They were all still enmeshed and in all unison enriching the pent-up confines of their car with close harmonies when the train began to check up bumpingly, and advised by familiar objects beginning to pass the windows Mr. Birdseye realised that they approached their destination. It didn’t seem humanly possible that so much time had elapsed with such miraculous rapidity, but there was the indisputable evidence in Langford’s Real Estate Division and the trackside warehouses of Brazzell Brothers’ Pride of Dixie fertilizer works. From a chosen and accepted comrade he now became also a guide.
“Fellows!” he announced, breaking out of the ring, “we’ll be in in just a minute—this is Anneburg!”
Coincidentally with this announcement the conductor appeared at the forward end of the car and in a word gave confirmatory evidence. Of the car porter there was no sign. Duty called him to be present, but prudence bade him nay. He had discretion, that porter.
[400]
The song that was being sung at that particular moment—whatever it was—was suffered to languish and die midway of a long-drawn refrain. There was a scattering of the minstrels to snatch up suit cases, bags and other portable impedimenta.
“I’ll ride up to the hotel with you,” suggested Mr. Birdseye, laying a detaining hand upon the master’s elbow. “If I get a chance there’s something I want to tell you on the way.” He was just remembering he had forgotten to mention that treacherous soft spot back of centre field.
“You bet your blameless young life you’ll ride with us!” answered back the other, reaching for a valise.
“What? Lose our honoured and esteemed reception committee now? Not a chance!” confirmed an enormous youth whose bass tones fitted him for the life of a troubadour, but whose breadth of frame qualified him for piano-moving or centre-rushing. With a great bear-hug he lifted Mr. Birdseye in his arms, roughly fondling him.
“You’re going to the Hotel Balboa, of course,” added Mr. Birdseye, regaining his feet and his breath as the caressing grip of the giant relaxed.
“Hotel Balboa is right, old Pathfinder.”
“Then we’d all better take the hotel bus uptown, hadn’t we?”