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Sadie ought to know better." She prepared a lecture for the cook. The motor shot up the drive into a babble and halted at the steps. Someone immense rose from a chair and leaped down the space in one stride. Adam said, "H'lo, Mamma," and opened the car door. Mrs. Egg squealed. The giant lifted her out of her seat and carried her into the sitting room.
"H'lo, boys!" he invited. "Won't you come 'board?" "No, thank you," declined Budge. "When did you get here?" "We come last night, from ... there," with a vague gesture toward the west. "We fish, we lobster. You live on dis island ... yes? We stay here, too. We be good friend. Wait!" Diving below, he brought up a long-necked black bottle. "You have drink?" "No!" refused Budge, decidedly.
That was the way the Paul Reveres of 1916 summoned the troops to arms. Mr. Minute-Man Dyckman sat on the edge of his bed in his silk pajamas with the telephone-receiver at his ear, and yawned: "H'lo.... Who is it?... What is it?... Oh, it's you, sergeant.... Yes?... No!... For God's sake!... I'll get out right away." "What's the matter? Is the house on fire?"
Cleggett himself, as he filled and lighted the pipe, did it in the most matter-of-fact sort of way. Then he remarked to the head of the copy desk, in an average kind of voice: "H'lo, Jim." "H'lo, Clegg," said Jim, without looking up. "Might as well begin on this bunch of early copy, I guess."
He had left a ten o'clock call with the hotel's visiphone operator when he got back to the hotel at last. When she called he groggily opened one eye half way, and fumbled for the toggle-switch. "H'lo." "Ten o'clock of a fine morning, Mr. Hanlon." "Oh, no!" he groaned. "Oh, yes," she giggled. "That bad, is it?" "Worse'n that. But thanks anyway ... I guess."
His hair was long and cut off straight above the shoulders in the old-time Indian silhouette; but this buck was no Shoshone, for they have given up the breech-clout and he wore a cloth about his hips. "H'lo!" he hailed and Wunpost ducked back for he did not trust his guest. He was the man, beyond a doubt, who had shot him from the ridge; and such a man would shoot again.
The logger rose to his feet. "H'lo, Benton," he greeted thickly. "How's every-thin'?" Benton's answer was a quick lurch of his body and a smashing jab of his clenched fist. The blow stretched the logger on his back, with blood streaming from both nostrils. But he was a hardy customer, for he bounced up like a rubber ball, only to be floored even more viciously before he was well set on his feet.
"H'lo," said Caroline, who was colloquial only in moments of real pleasure or excitement. "I've just written to you. I asked you to come and see me to-morrow evening," she added more seriously, "to talk about something that's weighing on my mind." "I'm going out with a blonde to-morrow, night," Billy said speciously, "but what's the matter with to-night?
"H'lo, Silly Bill!" said this person, William Sylvanus Baxter. "What's the news?" William showed no enthusiasm; on the contrary, a frown of annoyance appeared upon his brow. The nickname "Silly Bill" long ago compounded by merry child-comrades from "William" and "Sylvanus" was not to his taste, especially in public, where he preferred to be addressed simply and manfully as "Baxter."
She was the brunette with the full bust and hips, in the short black skirt and the tight white sweater, who was standing by the fireplace. "H'lo." The blonde Geraldine smiled shyly at him. She had big blue eyes, and delicately tinted rose-petal lips that seemed to be trying not to laugh at some private joke.
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