Breathlessly the questions tumbled one over the other.
"The Siren is anchored off Gloucester and bound north, probably to Bar Harbor. A dog they call Trixie, but which O'Connel thinks is Lola, is aboard the boat. The description we gave him seems to fit her. He says she isn't very well—won't eat and seems either homesick or seasick. Mr. Daly is quite worried about her."
"For goodness' sake don't tell Dad or Mother that. They'll have a fit," Dick cried. "Should Lola die I believe my father would shoot Daly down."
"But I've got to give him the message."
"You needn't repeat all of it, need you?"
"Oh, I think you ought to tell them," Walter put in. "They would rather know, I'm sure."
"Dad will storm fit to raise the dead."
"We can't help it," answered His Highness.
"I am of the kid's opinion," Bob replied slowly. "I think we should tell your father and mother the whole truth just as O'Connel has sent it."
"Prepare for a nice, pleasant tornado, then," said Dick, "for you will get it all right."