She heard nothing that was said by any of
the professors. On winged feet she was flying back and forth
from the desert to the mountains, from the canyons to the sea.
She was raiding beds of amass and devising ways to roast the
bulbs and make a new dish. She was compounding drinks from
mescal and bisnaga. She was hunting desert pickles and trying to
remember whether Indian rhubarb ever grew so far south. She was
glad when the dismissal hour came that afternoon. With eager
feet she went straight to the Consolidated Bank and there she
asked again to be admitted to the office of the president. Mr.
Worthington rose as she came in.
"Am I wrong in my dates?" he inquired. "I was not expecting you
until tomorrow."
"No, you're quite right," said Linda. "At this hour tomorrow.
But, Mr. Worthington, I am in trouble again."
Linda looked so distressed that the banker pushed a chair to the
table's side for her, and when she had seated herself, he said
quietly: "Tell me all about it, Linda. We must get life
straightened out as best we can."
"I think I must tell you all about it," said Linda, "because I
know just enough about banking to know that I have a proposition
that I don't know how to handle. Are bankers like father
confessors and doctors and lawyers?"
"I think they are even more so," laughed Mr. Worthington.
"Perhaps the father confessor takes precedence, otherwise I
believe people are quite as much interested in their financial
secrets as in anything else in all this world.
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