Now when we
land at Lochrie Bay to-morrow it will be nearly lunch-time; but shall
we get lunch?"
"I can answer that," replied MacFadden, whose grandfather was a
Scotsman, and who was once in Edinburgh for a week; "the map shows
it is only five miles to Waterfoot, and there's sure to be an hotel
there. Those little Scots inns are all right."
"Yes," chimed in Sylvia, "and very likely there'll be nothing to eat
when we get there. I am thinking of you three men, of course," she
added hastily; "we girls don't want much."
"As for me," said Willoughby, looking at Sylvia, whom he has adored
dumbly for years, "very little satisfies me. I'm like the fellow who
said, 'a crust of bread, a bottle of wine and you.' You know the chap,
MacFadden."
"Isn't it wonderful how he remembers his OMAR?" remarked Mac
enthusiastically.
"I don't know much poetry," said Willoughby, whose tastes are sporting
rather than literary, "but I always liked that bit."
"But lunch," I interposed, "is the pressing question. There's sure to
be an hotel at Waterfoot, as you say. Send a telegram there, asking
for lunch for six. If there's no hotel, no reply and no lunch. If
there is we get our reply and our lunch. Willoughby can wire, because
he learned all about telegraphs in the army.
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