He and Eleanor looked at each other in despair.
"Go--to--the--hotel?" she murmured, her heart in her boots. "I never
can do that," she continued. Her voice was full of tears.
Mrs. Van Truder bore down upon them like an angry vulture. They saw
her coming, but neither had the strength of purpose to move.
Before they really knew how it happened, she was leading Eleanor to
the hotel 'bus and he was limply following, lugging both bags with a
faithfulness that seemed pathetic. Two minutes later they were in the
'bus, touching knees with the equally dazed and discomfited English
people.
Back on the platform the elongated medical gentleman, Mr. Hooker, was
talking loudly, wrathfully to the station agent. His voice rang in
their ears long after the 'bus rolled away on its "trip" to the big
summer hotel.
"You say old man Grover ain't dead yet?" Mr. Hooker was growling
resentfully, even indignantly.
"He ain't expected to live till night, sir, poor old man," replied the
agent.
"Well, I'll be damned!" roared Mr. Hooker. "I don't see any sense in a
man of his age hanging on like this. He's eighty-three. My time is
valuable"--looking at his big silver watch--"and I can't afford to
hang around here if he's going to act like this.
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