The song that was being sung at that particular moment--whatever it was--was suffered to languish and die midway of a long-drawn refrain. There was a scattering of the minstrels to snatch up suit cases, bags and other portable impedimenta. "I'll ride up to the hotel with you," suggested Mr. Birdseye, laying a detaining hand upon the master's elbow. "If I get a chance there's something I want to tell you on the way." He was just remembering he had forgotten to mention that treacherous soft spot back of centre field. "You bet your blameless young life you'll ride with us!" answered back the other, reaching for a valise. "What? Lose our honoured and esteemed reception committee now? Not a chance!" confirmed an enormous youth whose bass tones fitted him for the life of a troubadour, but whose breadth of frame qualified him for piano-moving or centre-rushing. With a great bear-hug he lifted Mr. Birdseye in his arms, roughly fondling him. "You're going to the Hotel Balboa, of course," added Mr. Birdseye, regaining his feet and his breath as the caressing grip of the giant relaxed. "Hotel Balboa is right, old Pathfinder." "Then we'd all better take the hotel bus uptown, hadn't we?" "Just watch us take it." "I'll lay eight to five that bus has never been properly taken before now." "But it's about to be." He who uttered this prophecy was the brisk youngster who had objected to being designated by so elaborated a title as Flying Jenny. "All out!" Like a chip on the crest of a mountain torrent Mr. Birdseye was borne down the car steps as the train halted beneath the shed of the Anneburg station. Across the intervening tracks, through the gate and the station and out again at the far side of the waiting room the living freshet poured. As he was carried along with it, the Indian being at his right hand, the orange thrower at his left, and behind him irresistible forces ramping and roaring, Mr. Birdseye was aware of a large crowd, of Nick Cornwall, of others locally associated with the destinies of the Anneburg team, of many known to him personally or by name, all staring hard, with puzzled looks, as he went whirling on by. Their faces were visible a fleeting moment, then vanished like faces seen in a fitful dream, and now the human ground swell had surrounded and inundated a large motorbus, property of the Hotel Balboa.