“What luck! what bully good luck!” he went on. “Mrs. Brewster, how do you do? This is like old Cairo days. Boston, you brute, why didn’t you mention this at luncheon?”
The flock choked; this was from the Goat, who had unobtrusively consumed most of the plate of toast at noon while the Lambs were discussing the visit of the Cousin and the Aunt. The Albany Lamb rose to the occasion feebly.
“There seems to have been some mistake,” he said. The Goat put his hat on the bust of the young Augustus, and sat down on the divan beside the Cousin.
“Well, now I’ve happened in, mightn’t I have some tea?” he inquired, genially. “No lemon, if you please,” and he pointed a suggestive finger at the rum. In dazed silence the Brookline Lamb hastened to serve him, while the Cousin said, with a peculiar little smile tightening the corners of her mouth:
“I thought it was strange that you didn’t know Mr. Freeman.”
“We really don’t,” said the Boston Lamb, making a late recover. “I’m not at all sure that he is a fit person for you to associate with—all we know of him is what he has told us himself.”
“That’s all right,” said the Goat, impudently. “And, anyway, I didn’t come to see you this time, old man.”
“What has he told you?” demanded the Cousin, as the Boston Lamb gasped with impotent rage.
“A series of Munchausen adventures,” returned the Philadelphia Lamb, vindictively. “Six Apaches and three and a half Sioux with one throw of the lasso.”
“Won out in a hugging match with a ten-foot grizzly,” added the Albany Lamb.