“That is what I call a fitting reception,” said Cattleton, gazing at the trumpeter.
“See here,” exclaimed Crane with evident excitement, “I smell whisky! This——”
“Hyer! what d’ye mean hyer, you all a comin’ down hyer?” broke forth a wrathful voice, and Wesley Tolliver rushed with melodramatic fierceness upon the scene.
“Oh! I—I—wa—want to g—go home!” cried little Mrs. Philpot, clutching Bartley Hubbard’s arm.
“So do I,” said he with phlegmatic cleverness. “I should like to see my mother. I’m feeling a little lonely and——”
“What upon yearth do this yer mean, anyhow?” thundered Tolliver. “Who invited you all down yer, tell me thet, will ye?”
“Oh, Mr. Tolliver, Mr. Tolliver!” exclaimed Miss Crabb, rushing upon him excitedly, “I’m so glad you are here!”
“Well, I’ll ber dorged!” he ejaculated, “you down hyer again! Well, I never seed the like afore in all my born days.”
He gazed at first one and then another of the party, and a sudden light flashed into his face.
“Well I’ll ber dorged ef ther whole kepoodle of ’em hain’t done jest gone and tumbled off’n the mounting an’ jest rolled down hyer!”