“No—no, thank you.”
“Umph! Maybe you’d like some pudding, then?”
“No, thank you,” Sam repeated, and pushed back his chair.
“Better think twice about it,” Maggie urged. “It’ll be a long time before supper.”
Sam snatched up his cap, and hurried out, calling back a third “No, thank you,” over his shoulder.
There was a big, old-fashioned barn on the Parker place, part of which was now in use as a garage. Just outside its wide door stood a touring car, the cover of its hood raised. A clean-shaven man in overalls, who had been pottering about the motor, caught sight of Sam, and hailed him cheerily:
“Hi there! Where’s the fire?”
Sam pulled up. “Fire? What are you talking about, Lon? I haven’t heard any alarm.”
Lon Gates, man-of-all-work, coachman, gardener, chauffeur, and general factotum, chuckled. He studied Sam for a moment. They were great friends, were these two, and more than once the man had proved a tower of strength for the boy in time of trouble.
“No fire, eh? Thought you must be goin’ to one, way you was speedin’.”