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Very deliberately Hogarty deciphered the words, lifted a vaguely puzzled face to Young Denny, who waited immobile and then returned again to the card. He even nodded once in thorough appreciation of the title which Morehouse had given the boy; he smiled faintly as he remembered Denny as he had stood there in the entrance of the big room, a short while before, and realized how apt the phrase was.
"Early enough for us to start, if if the answer's yes?" "As soon as I wake up. Will that do?" "That will do. And let it depend on your dreams. I'll trust my luck to them. Because dreams are in the country of make-believe; sometimes they are good so good they make you want to go on and on. Besides, there'll be the Morehouse letter. I bank on that. But more on the dreams." The letter had come.
He hurried away to telegraph Henry Morehouse, at Doctor Beal's Nursing Home, asking a favour which he was sure Morehouse would grant, because they had grown very friendly on the journey East. Next, he called at the largest garage in Los Angeles, and asked advice of the manager about buying a motor-car. "You wrote me in the winter, saying you had a fine one here to dispose of," he said.
Hogarty even recalled and related the late delivery of the card of introduction which Morehouse was now nervously twisting into misshapen shreds and, word for word, repeated the boy's grave explanation of his reason for that tardiness. "He bothered you, did he?" he asked. "Well, he had me guessing, too, right from the first word he spoke.
Morehouse, who led the Golf Club crowd. A haughty young lady in the dining-room, Birdie Callahan, in her stiffly starched white, but beneath the icy crust of her hauteur was a molten mass of good humor and friendliness. She and Molly Brandeis had had much in common.
'Twould be the same was they Dutch pigs or Rooshun pigs. Mike Flannery," he added, "is here to tind to the expriss business and not to hould conversation wid dago pigs in sivinteen languages fer to discover be they Chinese or Tipperary by birth an' nativity." Mr. Morehouse hesitated. He bit his lip and then flung out his arms wildly. "Very well!" he shouted, "you shall hear of this!
Before the human world moves birds seem happiest, and surely wildest, so that on the dewy summer morning, Grace and Cleo stepped onto the Point and into a perfect medley of bird language. "No one around here," commented Cleo. "Don't let us waste time." They hurried back to Tommie's boat, just in time to see a launch cut by. In it was the white duck woman, Miss Hannah Morehouse.
Her body seemed nerveless and she feared that if she rose her limbs would not support her, or, if they did support her, she must fly like a mad thing from the house. And so she sat, a fixed smile frozen on her lips, greeting those who approached her. Beatrice Coddington left her seat, and Trevvy Morehouse made haste to fill it.
"Miss Morehouse is over there," he said in warning, "I saw her sailin' around in her hospital clothes yesterday." "We don't mind. Is she Aunt Hannah?" Cleo asked. "Yes, that's the dame. Miss Hannah Morehouse, boss of Looney Land," replied Tommie, "and you've got a lot of nerve to trespass on her territory. She's mighty strict."
"But, you everlastingly stupid idiot!" shouted Mr. Morehouse, madly shaking a flimsy printed book beneath the agent's nose, "can't you read it here-in your own plain printed rates? 'Pets, domestic, Franklin to Westcote, if properly boxed, twenty-five cents each." He threw the book on the counter in disgust. "What more do you want? Aren't they pets? Aren't they domestic?
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