"She is, the lady and her little son," said Solon, resuming his walk up and down the room. "She is coming all the way from Boston, Massachusetts. And I don't believe she quite knows what she's coming to. She speaks in a strange manner of her hope that she may be able to do good among us, and in her last letter she wants to know if I have ever seen a little book called 'One Hundred Common Errors in Speaking and Writing.' She seems to have the missionary instinct, as nearly as I can judge."
He paused in his walk and lowered his voice impressively.
"Between you and me, Cal,—you know I've had about six letters from her,—it's just possible that Potts had his reasons. I don't say he did, mind you,—but strange things happen in this world.
"But that's neither here nor there," he went on more lightly. "Potts has brought it on himself."
In silence, then, we awaited the return of the messenger. The moment was tensely electric when at last we heard the clatter of his boots on the stairway. Breathless, he entered and stood before us, his coolness for once destroyed under the strain of his adventure. Solon helped him to a chair with soothing words.
"Take it easy now, Billy! Get your breath—there—that's good! Now tell us all about it—just what you said and just what he said and just what talk there was back and forth."
