“And I say, ‘Boo, grandmamma!’ laughed Barby confidentially.”
“It’s Mr. Ferguson,” said Polly, glancing over Barby’s shoulder. “I suppose he has come out on the early train. Oh! your papa, dear, will come next train, I verily believe; and then, children, perhaps he will have a cablegram from Grandpapa and Aunt Phronsie and Uncle Joel. Just think!”
The maid stood before her saying, “Mr. Ferguson is down-stairs, Mrs. King, and he wants to see you at once.”
So Polly put Barby down, and hurried off. “Go back, dears,” as they rushed along the upper hall after her.
Mr. Ferguson, their next neighbor a half-mile or so down the road, stood in the wide hall nervously twirling his hat.
“Won’t you come in?” asked Mrs. King.
“N—no, I thank you,” said Mr. Ferguson, edging off to the big front door. “I just called going by from the train. I thought you ought to know, and there wasn’t any time to go to Mr. King’s office and tell him.”
“What is it?” asked Polly quietly.
“It’s on the bulletin-board,” said Mr. Ferguson, twirling his hat worse than ever—“they were putting it out when I went by for the train—I thought you ought to know.”