“You got our wire?” demanded of him the young manager. “Rooms all ready?”
“Rooms all ready, Mister——”
“Fine and dandy! We’ll go right up and wash up for lunch. Here’s the list—copy the names onto the register yourself. Where’s the elevator? Oh, there it is. All aboard, boys! No, wait a minute,” countermanded this young commander who forgot nothing, as he turned and confronted Mr. Birdseye. “Before parting, we will give three cheers for our dear friend, guide [405] and well-wisher, Colonel Birdseye Maple. All together:
“Whee! Whee! Whee!”
The last and loudest Whee died away; the troupe charged through and over a skirmish line of darky bell hops; they stormed the elevator cage. Half in and half out of it their chief paused to wave a hand to him whom they had just honoured.
“See you later, Colonel,” he called across the intervening space. “You said you’d be there when we open up, you know.”
“I’ll be there, Swifty, on a front seat!” pledged Mr. Birdseye happily.
The overloaded elevator strained and started and vanished upward, vocal to the last. In the comparative calm which ensued Mr. Birdseye, head well up, chest well out, and thumbs in the arm openings of a distended waistcoat, lounged easily but with the obvious air of a conqueror back toward the desk and Mr. Ollie Bates.
“Some noisy bunch!” said Mr. Bates admiringly. “Say, J. Henry, where did they pick you up?”
“They didn’t pick me up, I picked them up—met ’em over at Barstow and rode in with ’em.”