on the bench beside the door, scrubbed his face dry on the roller
towel, and took his place at the long table within.

"Any mail for me?" Jack Bates looked up from emptying the third
spoon of sugar into his coffee.

"Naw--she didn't write this time, Jack." Shorty reached a long arm
for the "Mulligan stew."

"How's the dance coming on?" asked Cal Emmett.

"I guess it's a go, all right. They've got them coons engaged to
play. The hotel's fixing for a big crowd, if the weather holds like
this. Chip, Old Man wants you to catch up the creams, after supper;
you've got to meet the train to-morrow."

"Which train?" demanded Chip, looking up. "Is old Dunk coming?"

"The noon train. No, he didn't say nothing about Dunk. He wants a
bunch of you fellows to go up and hoe out the White House and slick
it up for comp'ny--got to be done t'-night. And Patsy, Old Man says
for you t' git a move on and cook something fit to eat; something
that ain't plum full uh microbes."

Shorty became suddenly engaged in cooling his coffee, enjoying the
varied emotions depicted on the faces of the boys.

"Who's coming?"

"What's up?"