“Trying to keep it secret gives it a guilty look,” said Charity.
“What people don't know won't hurt 'em,” said Jim.
“What they do imagine will hurt us,” said Charity.
At the top of a knoll in a clandestine group of trees they found “Viewcrest Inn.” It was dark but for a dim light in the office. The door of that was locked.
Trade was dull, now that the Newport season was over, and only an occasional couple from Fall River, Providence, or New Bedford tested the diminished hospitality. But to-night there had been a concurrence of visitors. Jim rattled at the door. A waiter appeared, yawning candidly. He limped to the door with a gait that Kedzie would have recognized.
He peered out and shook his head, waving the intruders away. Jim shook the knob and glowered back.
The waiter, who, in the classic phrase, was “none other than” Skip Magruder, unlocked the door.
“Nothin' doin', folks,” said Skip. “Standin' room only. Not a room left.”
“I don't want any of your dirty rooms,” said Jim. “I want some gasolene.”
“Bar's closed,” said Skip, who had a nimble wit.