"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bolling," said the dancer.
"Bless you, Rebecca, I'm not going back to New York for months. I'm booked up with these barnstormers until July and then I'm going to make tracks for Georgia and see my folks."
"You might give Rebecca an order on the warehouse company for the trunk," suggested Philip, producing a fountain pen and tearing a sheet from his note book. "The trunk is marked, is it not, Rebecca?"
"Oh, yes! T. Taylor is on one end and it is plastered all over with foreign labels. It is a small leather trunk."
"You will give the order, won't you?" Philip asked with respectful courtesy that appealed to the pretty dancer.
"Sure, if you ask it. Write out the order; describe the trunk. Make it out to bearer and let me sign it. It's the Victory Warehouse Corporation. You'll have to pay the back storage, though, before you can take anything out," she added shrewdly.
"I believe Grandfather would not mind, no matter what it costs," said Rebecca.
"So your folks are rich?"
"No, not rich—at least not now—" and then
