“Seems like it didn’t take you long to make friends with ’em,” commented Mr. Bates.
“It didn’t take me half a minute. Easiest bunch to get acquainted with you ever saw in [406] your life, Ollie. And kidders? Well, they wrote kidding—that’s all—words and music. I wish you could a-seen them stringing old man ’Lonzo Nutt down the street! I like to died!” He unbent a trifle; after all, Mr. Bates was an old friend. “Say, Ollie, that gang won’t do a thing to our little old scrub team this afternoon, with Long Leaf Pinderson pitching. I saw him in action—with oranges. He——”
“Say, listen, J. Henry,” broke in Mr. Bates. “Who in thunder do you think that gang is you’ve been associating with?”
“Think it is? Who would it be but the Moguls?”
“Moguls?”
A convulsion seized and overcame Mr. Bates. He bent double, his distorted face in his hands, his shoulders heaving, weird sounds issuing from his throat. Then lifting his head, he opened that big mouth of his, afflicting the adjacent air with raucous and discordant laughter.
“Moguls! Moguls! Say, you need to have your head looked into. Why, J. Henry, the Moguls came in on the twelve-forty-five and Nick Cornwall and the crowd met ’em and they’re down to the Hotel Esplanade right this minute, I reckon. We tried to land ’em for the Balboa, but it seemed like they wanted a quiet hotel. Well, they’ll have their wish at the Esplanade!”
“Then who—then who are these?”
It was the broken, faltering accent of Mr. [407] Birdseye, sounded wanly and as from a long way off.
“These? Why, it’s the College Glee Club from Chickasaw Tech., down in Alabama, that’s going to give a concert at the opera house to-night. And you thought all the time you were with the Moguls? Well, you poor simp!”