The old Scot appeared to be suffering from a severe cold. His handkerchief was pressed to his face.
“Take it down, Mac,” I ordered. “It’s useless.” He did so, and my worst suspicions were confirmed.
“He bullied me into it,” declared the tailor, glowering at Cyrus the Gaunt.
“It’ll do your nose good,” declared Cyrus jauntily. “Give it a change. Complementary colors, you know. What ho! Our leader.”
Phil Stacey appeared. He appeared serious; that is, as serious as one can appear when his central feature glows like the starboard light of an incoming steamship. Following him were Leon Coventry, huge and shy, and the lethal Boggs looking unhappy.
“Where are you all going?” I demanded.
“To the Wrightery,” said Phil.
“Is it a party?”
“It’s a gathering.”
“Am I included?”