“For this afternoon an’ to-night two dollars an’ grub, in case ye make good.”
Whiffin led the way to the entrance, and, as they walked outside, Dave’s eyes ran over the lot. A large number of grown people, as well as children were headed toward it. He saw that haste was, indeed, necessary.
“I’ll skip over to the mess tent now,” he said, briskly, “and——”
“What! Ye ain’t had no grub yit?” exclaimed Mr. Peter Whiffin, in astonishment.
“No! But——”
“Well, don’t waste your time in jawin’. Take ’im over, you Joe. Then git right back on the job, or you’ll hear somethin’ ye don’t like. Report to me in fifteen minutes, young feller.”
“That’s Whiffin,” growled Joe, as the two promptly walked away. “Him an’ me don’t hit it nohow. Say, Jumbo—I mean Dave—you’ve got nerve, all right. If ye kin chuck the talk to the crowd as well as ye did afore Whiffin you’ll have Jack Gray a-guessin’.”
The mess tent was almost deserted when Dave, escorted by Joe Rodgers, to the amazement of several waiters, a clown, and a few members of the “Celebrated Randolpho family,” wizards of the flying trapeze, walked up to a table and sat down.
“What ees this?” murmured Randolpho, Senior, who, however, was no relation to the other “Randolphos.” “Aha, it ees the same fat boy I have see here before.”
Joe Rodgers immediately made Mr. Whiffin’s orders known to those in charge, and in a few minutes the historian was served by a grinning and much mystified waiter.