Young Mitchell needed no further inducements. He got up in back of the big sedan and with a roar and lurch he speeded ahead and cut in front of the car, and before Westy knew it they were back on the road again with the sedan stalled back in the distance.
He laughed, but all Westy could do was smile—he didn’t feel that it was a laughing matter.
“Want to see me do it again?”
“I couldn’t say no if I tried,” Westy said resignedly.
“Watch me closely then and you can learn!”
By the time Mitchells had dinner early Sunday evening Westy had become quite adept in cutting motor cars with a motorcycle.
At dinner the conversation was about the expected arrivals that evening.
The Mexican butler, gliding in and out from the kitchen to the dining-room, seemed to be aware of everything that was needed, yet Westy couldn’t see that he looked at anything. He just seemed to look ahead all the time, his little beady eyes perfectly expressionless. A little man he was, with swarthy skin and shiny black hair. A perfect butler, no doubt, but Westy didn’t like him.
“Baptiste!” Mr. Mitchell addressed him as he was bending over the server on the opposite side of the room.
“Yees, sir!” His English was broken and he turned from what he was doing.