“Hey! Watcher want?”
Dave looked around, to find himself the target for many pairs of staring eyes. It was a little embarrassing—very little, however. He looked over the rows of grinning faces and was about to reply when a boy not far off suddenly popped up from his seat.
“Well, if it ain’t Jumbo ag’in!”
A roar of mirth echoed through the mess tent. Sallies began flying thick and fast. Dave, however, stood his ground.
“I’m looking for Mr. Whiffin,” he said, calmly.
Joe Rodgers, arrayed in the reddest of red vests, put his small form in motion, and, with remarkable disregard for the feet and shins about him, pushed his way forward.
“Hey!” screeched Joe, shaking his fist at a particularly loud-voiced person who was busy hurling questions at Dave. “Let that ’ere feller alone. I’m his guardeen.”
“Where is Mr. Whiffin, Joe?” asked Dave.
“I dunno. But if ye hear a row goin’ on anywheres steer fur it, an’ you’ll find him,” answered Joe. “What d’ye want with ’im, anyway?”
Dave, uttering a sigh of relief, withdrew from the curious stares, the loud voices and general noise and confusion which pervaded the tent. Joe was at his side.