Mrs. Allen bethought herself that there was a lot of work to be
done in preparation for the party. Even if everything was ready,
the dear old soul would find something to do or worry about.
"Come, now, clear out of here, the hull kit an' b'ilin' of you,"
she ordered.
The men hastily crowded out on the piazza.
"Take that packin'-case out of sight, if you mean this pianny to
be a surprise to Echo. She'll be trottin' back here in no time,"
she added.
Fresno had lingered to assure Jim: "This yere birthday's goin'
to be a success. Would you like another selection?" he eagerly
asked.
"Not unless you wash your finger," snapped Mrs. Allen, busy
polishing the keys Fresno had struck. "You left a grease-spot on
every key you've touched," she explained.
Fresno held up his finger for Allen's inspection. "I've been
greasin' the wagon," was his explanation.
"Git out with the rest of them," she commanded. "I've got enough
to do to look after that cake." Mrs. Allen darted into the
kitchen. Jim slowly filled his pipe and hunted up the most
comfortable chair. After two or three trials he found one to
suit him, and sank back with a sigh of content.
"Jack ain't back yet?" Polly put the question.
Polly rearranged the chairs in the room, picking up and replacing
the articles on the table to suit her own artistic conceptions.
She straightened out a war-bonnet on the wall. She was flicking
off a spot of dust in the gilt chair that Jack had got as a
wedding present for Echo on the day of the station-agent's
murder, and, being reminded of the tragedy, she asked: "That
posse didn't catch the parties that killed Terrill, did they?"
"Not that I hear on.
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