At seven o’clock came the clarion call for breakfast: inviting and persuasive it was, with a lingering last note that fell softly on the ear and gradually died into discreet silence.
“Mr. Lupo blows the horn with so much expression,” said Elinor. “I really think he must have had long experience in summoning people to breakfast who were never ready. He’ll be giving ‘Weber’s Invitation to the Dance’ for dinner, I suppose.”
They had finished their morning toilets in the locker room, and were about to go downstairs when something tapped against one of the bamboo blinds. Billie promptly drew it up and looked into the clearing below.
“Who’s tapping at our chamber door?” she demanded.
A long fishing pole on which dangled five little nosegays made of ferns and grasses and wild asters was thrust at her. “Why, Algernon Percival,” she called. “I never dreamed you were so energetic.”
“Not guilty,” answered that young man’s voice from the lower porch. “When the bugle sounded just now, I was taking a shower bath. I’m still busy, but it doesn’t take long to get into camping clothes. Who is the only person we know who would get up at dawn and go tramping off for wild flowers?”
A tall, lanky figure stepped out from the shadow of the gallery and lifted his handsome, thoughtful face up to the girls leaning over the railing.
“Why, it’s Ben Austen,” they cried. “Dear old Ben, when did you come?”