“You’ll have to be announced,” the man stated. “What are your name and business?”
“Why—er”—Joey stammered—“just tell her it’s Joey Pell—Private Pell. She knows me.”
“Wait here,” said the man, and he closed the door.
Joey Pell waited. It was all very strange, he thought. He could look in through the window and see the long front room; usually it was crowded with soldiers; this day it was empty; not quite empty, however. At a desk sat a well-nourished lady—Mrs. Wilmerding, unquestionably. Joey Pell felt greatly relieved.
The door opened a trifle. The side-barred man was there. “Mrs. Wilmerding is not at home,” he said.
Joey decided that the man was joking; that this was a new system of entertainment.
“Say, kid,” he said, “you ain’t looked very hard. I can see her right in there.”
“She’s not at home,” said the man; his voice was frigid.
“Say, cut the kiddin’,” said Joey. “My reg’ment sails at noon and I gotta get to Hoboken.” The butler appeared to be closing the door.
“Hey, Mrs. Wilmerding! Mrs. Wilmerding!” Joey called loudly.