After they had eaten their dessert they started the victrola and danced, and Bob was again the good play-fellow. They began burlesquing classic dances, and laughed so boisterously at their success in making themselves ridiculous that McGovern and his wife came in to watch them. They had brought themselves to a high pitch of merriment when McGovern, who was assisting his wife in clearing the table, darted across the room and stopped the music.
“Good Lord; it’s some one knocking!” cried Bob, as the outer door shook under a heavy thumping.
“Just keep quiet,” said McGovern. “I guess it’s some one who’s got into trouble on the road.”
“People stop for a little gas to help ’em out sometimes,” said Mrs. McGovern. “Mac’ll get rid of ’em.”
McGovern, with his shoulder against the door threw a look of inquiry at Cummings and Grace. Cummings lifted his head as the voice again demanded admittance.
“Sounds like Atwood,—a chap I know,” he said to Grace. “Who’s with him, Mac?”
As McGovern opened the door a few grudging inches a male voice called him by name.
“Let us in, Mac: we’re freezing to death!”
“Sorry, but we’re closed for the season,” McGovern answered.
“That doesn’t go, Mac! You can’t turn me down,” replied the voice.