"Suppose I send him over to you, Miss Gorman," says I, "while I hustle along that piano?"
She nods, and I lose no time trailin' down Forsythe.
"Emergency call for you from Miss Jane," says I, edgin' in among his admirers and tappin' him on the shoulder. "She's waitin' over by headquarters."
"Oh, certainly," says Forsythe, startin' off brisk.
"And say," I calls after him, "I hope it won't be anything that'll make you faint."
"Please don't worry about me," says he.
Well, I tried not to. In fact, I tried so hard that some folks might have thought I'd heard good news from home. But I'd had a peek or two into the camp kitchen since Zaretti's food construction squad had moved in, and, believe me, it was no place for an artistic temperament, subject to creeps up the back. There was about a ton of cold-storage turkeys bein' unpacked, bushels of onions goin' through the shuckin' process, buckets of soup stock standin' around, and half a dozen murderous-lookin' assistant chefs was sharpenin' long knives and jabberin' excited in four languages.
Oh, yes; Forsythe was goin' to need all the inspiration he'd collected, if he lasted through.
I kind of wanted to stick around and cheer him up with friendly words while he was fishin' potatoes out of the cold water and learnin' to use a peelin'-knife, but my job wouldn't let me. After I'd seen the piano landed on the new stage, there were chairs to be placed for the orchestra, and then other things. So it was some little time before I got around to the kitchen wing again, pretendin' to be lookin' for Zaretti. But nowhere in that steamin', hustlin', garlic-smellin' bunch could I see Forsythe.
"Hey, chef!" I sings out. "Where's that expert potato-peeler I sent you?"