Brenchfield––surly watch-dog that he was––was at their heels again. This time, the refreshment buffet was his plea.
Phil abandoned his partner to him with good grace, for even Graham Brenchfield could not quench his good spirits over the great enjoyment he still had in store;––another waltz with Eileen Pederstone.
In the hallway, he encountered Jim, who twitted him for a moment for his great courage, but Phil could see that Jim had something on his mind that had not been there when he had left him. They went to the outside door and stood together in the cool, night air.
“Gee Phil!––but this is a grand night for these feed sneaks to pull off something big,” he said, in that mixture of Scotticisms and Western Canadian slang that he often indulged in.
“What makes you think of that?”
“Look at the sky, man!––black as ink and not a moon to be seen. Everybody is at the dance; Chief Palmer and Howden are here; the Mayor, the Aldermen, Royce Pederstone, Ben Todd; why, man,––the town outside there is empty.
“Did you notice anything peculiar in the gathering in there, Phil?”
“No! How do you mean?”
“Not a mother’s son of that Redman’s bunch is present.”