McGowan stepped to the door and made a trumpet of his hands.
“Frieda!” he shouted.
The girl appeared in the door of the chuck-shanty, and McGowan motioned for her to come to the office.
An order from the “boss” was to be obeyed instantly, at all times, and Frieda hurried across the intervening stretch and came breathlessly into the room where the two men were sitting.
“Vat id iss, Misder McGowan?” asked Frieda.
“I’d like to have you tell me what you know about the Dutchman, Schnitzenhauser, who seems to have been tied to your apron-strings during the last few days?”
“Ach, he iss a fine chentleman, I bed you!” declared Frieda.
“I presume so,” said McGowan dryly. “Bedad, it looks like he’d made something of an impression on you.”
“Impression, iss id? Vell, meppy; only I don’d tell him dot.”
Frieda blushed, and snickered, and then grew very much confused, dropped her eyes, and pulled the edge of her apron through her plump fingers.