She bent toward him with one hand extended pleadingly.
“Don’t say it! Don’t say it! If you say you’re not, you won’t be any fun any more!”
“Well, then we’ll say I am—a terrible freebooter—a bold, bad pirate,” he growled. “Now, may I come?”
She mused a moment, then struck her hands together.
“Come to the bungalow breakfast; that’s a fine idea!”
“And may I bring Hood?” he asked, leaning half-way across the wall in his anxiety to conclude the matter before she escaped. “He’s my boss, you understand, and I’m afraid I can’t shake him.”
“Certainly; bring Mr. Hood. Breakfast at eight.”
“And your home—your address—is there in the bungalow?”
“I’ve told you where my home is, in a verse I made up specially; and my address is care of the Little Dipper—there it is, up there in the sky, all nice and silvery.”
His gaze followed the pointing of her finger. The Little Dipper, as an address for the use of mortals, struck him as rather remote. To his surprise she advanced to the wall, rested her hands upon it, and peered into his face.