"Second floor—Room No. 3," said Buttons, then stood like an automaton to watch the tall young man scale the stair.
"He did 'em beautifully," he confided afterward to another bell-boy.
"Mr. King himself can't get over them stairs better."
"Come in!" cried Jasper, in response to the rap.
"Halloo, old fellow!" cried Pickering Dodge, rushing in tumultuously. "Well, well, so this is your den," looking around the small room in surprise.
"Yes. Now this is good to see you!" exclaimed Jasper, joyfully leaping from his chair to seize Pickering's hand. "Well, what brought you? There's nothing wrong?" he asked, anxiously scanning Pickering's face.
"No—that is, everything's right; all except Polly."
"There isn't anything the matter with Polly?" Jasper turned quite white, scarcely speaking the words.
"No, she's all right, only"—Pickering turned impatiently off from the chair Jasper pulled forward with a hasty hand, and stalked to the other side of the little room. "She's—she's—well, she's so hard to come at nowadays. Everybody has a chance for a word with her but old friends. And now the Recital is in full blast."
Jasper drew a long breath, and began to get his color again. "Oh, yes—well, it's all going on well, the Recital, I mean, isn't it?" he asked.
"I believe so," said Pickering in a gloomy way. "The girls are wild over it; you can't hear anything else talked about at home. But," he broke off abruptly, "got a cigar, Jasper?" and he began to hunt the mantel among the few home-things spread around to enliven the hotel apartment.