“Excellent—heroic—great boy—grand boy!” he exclaimed. There was a genial greeting from Mr. Strapp when they entered the sitting room of the suite. Vic gently pulled Pep’s arm.
“The movies,” he whispered. “You know we were going to see them.” But Pep was so immersed in the bustle and hubbub of the moment that he was reluctant to leave at once. Then Frank came up to Vic and drew him to one side, questioning him with interest as to what had led to his giving up farm life.
Professor Barrington had but one thought as soon as he had got through answering some questions put by Mr. Strapp.
“My mail,” he said, and Randy noticed that he seemed anxious and nervous as he hastened over to a desk between the windows and picked up a dozen or more letters and telegrams.
“Told them to wire here,” Randy heard him mumble. “No—no—no,” he added as he hurriedly ran over letters evidently of no importance. “Ah, from Halifax. No news—too bad! Magdalen Island—no news. Dear! dear!”
Finally he tore open a third telegraph envelope. Its inclosure fluttered in his fingers. His eyes bored into the contents Then it fell from his nerveless hands. He looked so agitated, and sank back in the chair with such a piteous face, that Randy called out sharply in alarm:
“Frank!”
“Eh?” questioned the young movies leader, and then observing that something was amiss with his old friend he ran up to him.
“Durham—telegram!” muttered the professor in a weak, gasping tone. “From Trinity, Newfoundland.”
“Bad news?” questioned Frank, supporting the professor, who seemed about to faint.