"Afraid he won't be of much use to us then. We want harmful men. But count him. That makes eight for us, nine against us, six doubtful. We'll do very nicely."
"And there's the cook. He's so fat and good-natured he must be all right," Evelyn suggested.
"By Jove! I'd forgotten 'Arry 'Iggins. No, he's against us. He talked to my man Morgan."
"And I suppose his flunky, Billie Blue, goes with cookie?" I added.
"The nine against us is now eleven," the girl said quietly.
I spoke cheerfully, which is far from how I felt.
"Oh, well, what's the odds? Nine or eleven, we'll beat them."
A steamer rug lying on a lounge at the end of the room heaved itself up. From its folds emerged the red head of Jimmie, belligerently. Its owner had evidently been roused from a nap.
"Where do I get off at I'd like to know?" demanded the indignant namesake of a martyred President. "Didn't I run down his nibs for you in 'Frisco and wise you where he was staying? Didn't I find out he was aboard here? Why ain't you countin' me in?"
Blythe assented gravely, but with a twinkle in his eye.