Part 7 (1/2)
”Do you plan to play in the tournament?”
”Yes, if the doctor says I may, and providing I qualify.”
Bartescue smiled. ”Your score was one of the lowest turned in. You qualified easily.”
”I was hoping to,” she said. ”Are you competing in the men's tournament tomorrow?”
”Oh yes, and I'm counting on winning the cup !”Bartescue announced. ”I went out for a practice round this morning and shot a sixty-nine. I'm just coming into my game,” he boasted. ”I doubt if anyone here will be a match for me unless I go into an unexpected slump.”
The girls found his bragging decidedly distasteful, but listened politely.
”May I treat you to ice cream?” he said as the four reached the hotel entrance. He seemed offended when Nancy declined.
When the girls gained the privacy of their adjoining bedrooms, Bess chuckled. ”At least he didn't see the bra.s.s chest.”
Nancy immediately tried to pry open the chest with a nail file but the lid would not budge.
”We need something with a sharp point,” George declared as she studied the little chest. ”If only we had an ice pick or something with a-”
Nancy sprang to her feet, her eyes full of excitement.
”Why didn't I think of it before?”
Without waiting to explain, she dropped the chest into George's lap and ran from the room.
She hurried through the hotel lobby to find a tool with which to pry open the lid. As Nancy pa.s.sed the flower shop, she paused a moment to admire the beautiful display in the window.
”It would be nice for me to send Bess and George each a bouquet,” she mused. ”They admired mine so much. They should have some of their own.” She grinned.
Impulsively Nancy entered the shop, where she purchased two bouquets to be delivered immediately to her friends.
”Shall I include your name?” the clerk inquired politely.
”No, just write 'From A Friend.' ”
Nancy knew that Bess and George would recognize her handwriting and thought it would be fun to tease them. She watched as the clerk wrote the message on two cards. Nancy picked up one and looked at it curiously.
”Your handwriting looks familiar,” she said.
”I sometimes write cards for my customers. Did someone send you flowers from my shop?”
”Yes, I received a dozen roses from a man named Martin Bartescue.”
”Oh, are you Miss Drew?”
”Yes, I am.”
”I wrote the card that went with your flowers,” the clerk recalled. ”Mr. Bartescue requested me to do so.”
”I see,” Nancy murmured, without disclosing by her tone that the information had special significance. She paid for the fiowers and left.