The catsup bottle in the middle of the table, the greasy, lukewarm soup in stone-china bowls, the tasteless profusion of canned vegetables, the dubious-looking water, and the muddy mixture, bitter from long boiling, which the Raegan House called coffee, were only additional affronts to a man already at the limit of his endurance.
His announcement of his intention to spend the rest of the day in the car, and to make it his headquarters during his stay, was delivered with a decision which left no possibility for protest.
What was mere dynamite to such indignities as these!
He stepped into the landau, which Richards had ordered round again, with a sensation of relief, heightened by that gentleman’s statement that he shouldn’t be able to see them again until morning. Richards found Mr. Wade rather exhausting, on his side.
“If you see a fellow in freak clothes on your way back, you can know it’s that son of Carrington’s,” he observed, as he stood on the sidewalk.
Hastings had his foot on the step of the landau, but he wheeled.
“Is Ned Carrington here?” he demanded.
“Been here all summer. Father broke his leg in a runaway and sent for him,” Richards growled.
“Then I think I’ll walk over and see him,” Hastings said promptly, “if you’ll excuse me, sir.”
He smiled confidently at his uncle.