Oddly enough, it was the usually reticent Shark who first found tongue.
“We like it.” He threw an emphasis on the “we,” to which Varley might have taken exception, had he been disposed to be critical. But the caller was not looking for trouble.
“I should think you would,” he said smoothly. “Fixed it up yourselves, didn’t you? Thought so. More fun to do it.”
It did not seem to occur to the Shark that it was his business to make reply, and nobody else volunteered. Varley took off his cap. It was a handsome cap of fur. He unbuttoned his overcoat; it was fur-lined. In fact, from head to heels he was outfitted for very cold weather, as if his garments had been selected for wear in semi-Arctic regions. Plainly enough, somebody had told him wonderful tales of winter temperatures “up country.”
The evidences that Varley intended to make a stay of some length stirred Sam to his duties as unofficial head of the club. Somehow, the rôle of spokesman seemed to fall to him, in times of emergency, by a sort of common consent.
“Er—er—why, how do you do?” he stammered. “Won’t you take a seat?”
Varley shook his head. He was still smiling in his friendly fashion.
“Why, no; I’d rather look about a bit, if I might,” said he. “I’d heard so much, one way or another, about this den of yours, that I made up my mind I’d make a call. Thought, too, I’d find you all in about this time of day. Say, you’ve got a cracking good hang-out! Said you fixed it yourselves, didn’t you?”
Then up spoke the Shark, testily: “Nobody said that.”
“But it’s the fact, all the same,” Sam hastened to remark. “Yes; what’s here we did, or made, or whatever you choose to call it.”