“That’s the story of Grimmins,” he said, when he had finished.
“Oh, dear me, dear me!” cried Bessie, “you told the men that, and I—I, Thaddeus, told the women the truth. Why, it’s—it’s awful. You’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Well, now that they know the truth, Bess,” Thaddeus said, “suppose you let me into the secret. What on earth is the meaning of all this—two butlers, silver platters, dinner fit for the gods, and all?”
“It’s all because of the tipsy-cake,” said Bessie.
“The what?” asked Thaddeus, sitting up and gazing at his wife as if he questioned her sanity.
“The tipsy-cake,” she repeated. “I gave Ellen the bottle of brandy you gave me for the tipsy-cake, and—and she drank half of it.”
“And the other half?”
“Mary drank that. They got word this morning that their brother was very ill, and it upset them so I don’t believe they knew what they were doing; but at one o’clock, when I went down to lunch, there was no lunch ready, and when I descended into the kitchen to find out why, I found that the fire had gone out, and both girls were—both girls were asleep on the cellar floor. They’re there yet—locked in; and all through dinner I was afraid they might come to, and—make a rumpus.”
“And the dinner?” said Thaddeus, a light breaking through into his troubled mind.
“I telegraphed to New York to Partinelli at once, telling him to serve a dinner for eight here to-night, supplying service, cook, dinner, and everything, and at four o’clock these men arrived and took possession. It was the only thing I could do, Thad, wasn’t it?”