It was impossible to think of Cummings otherwise than as a boy, and a foolish boy, but amusing when the humor was on him as now, and to have supper with him would work injury to no one.
While he talked to McGovern she went into a booth and explained to her mother that she wouldn’t be home for supper, saying that she was going to a movie with a girl friend.
“All set?” asked Cummings. “That’s fine. We’ll move right along. You’ll be in early; that’s a cinch. Evelyn’s sure to be home by ten and I’ll be practising Chopin furiously when she gets back from her uncle’s. Mac wasn’t keen about taking us in as he shuts down at the first frost. But that’s all the better; nobody else would think of going there on such a night!”
They were planning with much absurd detail the strategy of their approach to a beleaguered capital when they reached McGovern’s and were warmly welcomed by the proprietor.
“It gets mighty lonesome out here in the winter,” he said. “The missus thought you’d like having supper right here in the living room so you could sort o’ chum with the fire.”
“That’s a heavenly idea,” said Grace, eyeing the table with covers laid for two. Mrs. McGovern, a stout woman whose face shone with good nature, appeared and bade her husband help bring in the dishes. Whereupon Cummings and Grace rushed to the kitchen to assist and filed in behind him, bearing serving dishes and singing a song they had learned in their childhood:
“It’s over the river to feed the sheep,
It’s over the river to Charlie;
It’s over the river to feed the sheep
And measure out the barley!”