"They were
out in the upper hall, half a dozen of them, just now, ringing their
bells and calling for Mr. Biscombe."
"The poor man don't know who to side with. He don't want to lose the
whole west wing. After all, there must be young people in the house,
and if it weren't one thing it would be another. It's only a few fidgets
that complain. They'll hush up and go off presently, and the whole thing
will be a joke over the breakfast-table to-morrow morning, after
everybody's had a little sleep."
The singing died partially away just then, and some growling, less
noisy, but more in earnest, began.
"They don't _mean_ to let us in! I say, this is getting rather rough!"
"It's only to smash a pane of glass above the bolt and let ourselves in.
Why shouldn't we? We're invited." The latent mob-element was very near
developing itself in these young gentlemen, high-bred, but irate.
At this moment, a wagon came whirling down the road around the ledges.
Dakie Thayne caught sight of the two white leaders, recognized them, and
flew across to the hotel.
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