“This is four-seventeen, all right, and I’m Mr. Matson,” Joe answered. “But I didn’t order anything. I’ll tell you how it is though,” he added, as a thought struck him. “My friend who is sharing the room with me has just gone down to the lobby, and he’s probably told the clerk to send it up. That’s all right. Leave it there.”
“Shall I pour you out a glass, sir?” asked the boy, suiting the action to the word.
“If you like,” responded Joe carelessly, taking a quarter out of his pocket as a tip.
The boy thanked him and withdrew, closing the door behind him. Joe finished the paragraph he was writing, and then picked up the glass. He took a sip of it and put it down.
“Pretty bitter,” he said to himself. “Not enough sugar. Still it’s cooling, and I sure am warm.”
Again he lifted the glass to his lips, but just then Jim burst into the room.
“Whom do you think I saw just now?” he demanded.
“Give it up,” replied Joe. “But whoever it was, you seem to be all excited about it. Who was it?”
“Fleming!” answered Jim, as he plumped down into a chair.