“Well,” said Mr. Cole, “since you like classic music we’ll have some more. I was afraid you wouldn’t care for it.”
Chub winked soberly at Roy, their host having turned his back to select a new record, and Dick fidgeted in his chair.
“I think you’ll like this one immensely,” said Mr. Cole, clasping his hands on his breast and looking dreamily at the ceiling. The machine began to play and suddenly some one with an inimitable negro pronunciation launched forth into “Bill Simmons.” The surprise depicted on the faces of his audience was too much for Mr. Cole’s gravity and he laid his head back and for a moment drowned the music with his mellow laughter. There was no more classic music that evening; in fact, the cabinet seemed to be devoted principally to the other sort; for almost an hour the machine poured forth songs and instrumental selections that wrought the audience to the wildest enthusiasm. When they knew a song they joined in and helped the talking-machine, Mr. Cole almost raising the roof when he let himself out. Then Chub had a brilliant idea, the rug was taken up, the furniture moved out and they had a dance. Of course Harry was in great demand and she went from Roy to Chub and from Chub to Dick and from Dick to Mr. Cole with scarcely a pause. But even without Harry for a partner it was still possible to dance and the evolutions of Mr. Cole and Chub, clasped in each other’s arms was well worth a long journey to witness.
Perhaps that is what Billy Noon thought when at about half-past nine he peeked through one of the windows after having made fast his boat, for he smiled broadly as he looked. Then he went to the door and knocked. Dick, who was nearest, threw it open and Billy walked in.
“Hello, Noon!” cried Mr. Cole, pausing in the dance. “Is that you? What luck?”
“Good,” answered Billy smilingly as he laid down his hat and seated himself beside it on the window-seat.
“Then you got them?”
“All three.”
“Good for you!” said the artist heartily. “Where are they?”