“And this—” She pushed her companion forward. “This is the Red Rover. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you? The famous football star, the Red Rover?”
“Y-e-s?” The guide continued to stare. It was plain that he believed little of that which he had just heard. And who could blame him? What chance was there that the most famous football star of the season should go off into a wilderness in an airplane a few days before the big game of the year?
“It’s cold. We—we’d like to come in,” the girl pleaded.
The scout stared for ten seconds, then exclaimed:
“Beg pardon! Been a long time since any one was here. Didn’t expect to see a soul until spring. Come in. Got a big kettle of Mulligan stew on the stove. Big feed, what?”
“Can’t be too big for us!” said Berley, closing the door and, to the scout’s bewilderment, turning the key in the lock, as she said quite calmly: “I’d like to pull the shades if you don’t mind.”
“Why, yes. Just pull ’em right down.” The scout stared afresh.
“You see,” explained “the little half-portion,” dropping into a chair, “Red, here, and I ran away. We—we don’t want any one to know we are here. Not a soul—except, of course, you.”
“Thanks for the compliment, Miss. But I assure you there’ll not be a soul here until spring. Do you plan to stay that long?”
The muscles of Berley’s mouth were twitching desperately. It was great fun, this posing as the stolen bride of a famous football star, but bottling up her mirth was quite another matter.