“Come back!” ordered the latter, angrily.
“Not on yer life! I sees him. There he is by the winder. Hello, Dave!”
Yes—actually—Joe Rodgers, flaming red vest, big brass buttons and all, had invaded the fashionable dining-room of a fashionable hotel, and, unabashed by his surroundings or by the looks on the faces of the horrified guests and waiters, was steering as straight a course as he could for the table at which Captain Bunderley and the boys were seated.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE ARM OF THE LAW
“I know’d I’d see ’im!” cried Joe, exultingly. “I know’d it! That chump a-chasin’ me says ter git, but I up an’ comes in jist the same.”
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen!” exclaimed the agitated manager. “I assure you that it is not our fault; you see, the young——”
“It’s all right, sir!” boomed Captain Bunderley.
“Oh,—oh!” gasped the manager. “I’m gratified to hear it.”
Red-faced and flustered he promptly turned away.
Joe, with as little ceremony as though he was in the menagerie tent, drew up a chair, plumped himself down upon it and laid his cap across one knee. Then, having stared at the captain with solemn earnestness for a moment, blurted out: