Then Fremont closed and locked
the door and dropped into a chair, eyeing his friend as if
he would like to devour him, black bear fashion.
"You didn't expect to see me here, did you?" asked Frank.
"I should say not. How did you know where to find me?
When did you leave New York? How is Mr. Cameron? Tell
me all about everything."
"When you get done asking questions," cried Frank. "First,
Ned Nestor told me where to look for you. He told some of
the others, too, but I reckon they got lost on the way down.
I've been waiting for you half a year--it seems to me--a
whole day, any way. And that reminds me that you've got to beat it."
"And how is Mr. Cameron? Is he conscious yet?"
"Not yet, and they say he can't live. Say, I came down here to
enlist as drummer, so I could get a stand-in with the army
fellows, and, what do you think, they wouldn't enlist me!
Said I was too short and fat. Me short and fat! I'm going to
write up that recruiting officer and have Dad publish him to the world."
"There is a lot of talk about the case?" asked Fremont.
"Of course there is," was the reply. "But what do you think about
that recruiting officer? He ought to be pinched. Me too short and
fat! Ever hear me drum?"
"Only once," was the reply. "Then the boys held me while you drummed."
"Never you mind that," Frank replied. "I'm going to tell you now that
you've got to beat it. Understand? You've got to get out right
away--not to-morrow, but now.
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