“Lemons,” piped the high, childish voice.
“Whose lemons are the sourest and—and—juiciest ever grown.”
“What there are of them,” added the man in a wailing tenor.
“We are highly honored to meet Mr. Bulwer Runyon,” said the major, noticing that the girls were for once really embarrassed how to greet this new acquaintance.
“Out here,” remarked Dolph Hahn, with a grin, “we drop the handle to his name and call him ‘Bul Run’ for short. Sounds sort of patriotic, you know, and it’s not inappropriate.”
“You wrong me,” said the big rancher, squeaking the words cheerfully but at the same time frowning in a way that might well have terrified a pirate. “I’m not a bull and I don’t run. It’s enough exertion to walk. Therefore I ride. My new car is equipped with one of those remarkable—”
“Pardon me; we will not discuss your new car, if you please,” said Arthur. “We wish to talk of agreeable things. The marvelous Castro is concocting some of his mysterious dishes and we wish you to assist us in judging their merits.”
“I shall be glad to, for I’m pitifully hungry,” said the tenor voice. “I had breakfast at seven, you know—like a working man—and the ride over here in my new six-cylinder machine, which has a wonderful—”
“Never mind the machine, please. Forget it, and try to be sociable,” begged Dolph.
“How is the baby, Mrs. Weldon?”