Part 8 (2/2)
”If that isn't music,” he demanded, walking up to the amazed Deering, who still clung to his post by the door, ”what is it? Answer me that!”
”You played it perfectly,” Deering stammered.
”And you,” he demanded, whirling upon Hood, ”what have you to say, sir?”
”The great master himself would have envied your touch,” Hood replied.
The old gentleman glared. ”Rot!” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed; and then, turning to the mistress of the house, he asked: ”Do these ruffians dine with us?”
”They seem about to do us that honor. My father, Mr. Hood, and--Mr. Tuck.
Shall we go out to dinner?”
The gentleman she had introduced as her father glared again--a separate glare for each--and, advancing with a ridiculous strut, gave the lady his arm.
In the hall Hood intercepted Deering in the act of effecting egress by way of the front door. His fingers dug deeply into his nervous companion's arm as he dragged him along, talking in his characteristic vein:
”My dear Tuck, it's a pleasure to find ourselves at last in a home whose appointments speak for breeding and taste. The portrait on our right bears all the marks of a genuine Copley. Madam, may I inquire whether I correctly attribute that portrait to our great American master?”
”You are quite right,” she answered over her shoulder. ”The subject of the portrait is my great-great-grandfather.”
”My dear Tuck!” cried Hood jubilantly, still clutching Deering's arm, ”fate has again been kind to us; we are among folk of quality, as I had already guessed.”
The dining-room was in dark oak; the glow from concealed burners shed a soft light upon a round table.
”You will sit at my right, Mr. Hood, and Mr. Tuck by my father on the other side.”
Deering pinched himself to make sure he was awake. The next instant the room whirled, and he clutched the back of his chair for support. A girl came into the room and walked quickly to the seat beside him.
”Mr Hood and Mr. Tuck, my daughter----”
She hesitated, and the girl laughingly e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed: ”Pierrette!”
”Sit down, won't you, please,” said the little lady; but Deering stood staring open-mouthed at the girl.
Beyond question, she was the girl of the Little Dipper; there was no mistaking her. At this point the old gentleman afforded diversion by rising and bowing first to Hood and then to Deering.
”I am Pantaloon,” he said. ”My daughter is Columbine, as you may have guessed.”
”It's very nice to see you again,” Pierrette remarked to Deering; ”but, of course, I didn't know you would be here. How goes the burgling?”
”I--er--haven't got started yet. I find it a little difficult----”
”I'm afraid you're not getting much fun out of the adventurous life,” she suggested, noting the wild look in his eyes.
”I don't understand things, that's all,” he confessed, ”but I think I'm going to like it.”
”You find it a little too full of surprises? Oh, we all do at first! You see grandfather is seventy, and he never grew up, and mamma is just like him. And I--” She shrugged her shoulders and flashed a smile at her grandparent.
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