"Good-by, Jerry," replied Billy, frightened at she knew not what,
realizing that there were after all things in men's lives of which she
knew nothing. She walked with him to the fence and watched him swing
over it.
"Cross-cuts for me," he explained, holding out his hand. She placed
hers in it and he crushed her small fingers until they hurt, then
turning abruptly, left her there among the brambles, watching him across
the bars.
*CHAPTER XXIV*
*THE POET OR THE POODLE*
The day was unusually hot for late August in Maine. The grass was brown
and dry, the leaves hung limply on the trees and the dust in the roads
was ankle deep. No breeze came from the sea, while the sails of the
pleasure boats drooped in warm dejection. Every one had sought shelter
from the sun, and wharfs, streets and houses of the small seaport town
appeared deserted.
Bartlett had taken himself off to the dim seclusion of the house, where
he lounged with windows opened, blinds drawn and a small table of
cooling beverages near at hand. The heat, the drowsy, shrill hum of the
crickets and the muffled, monotonous roar of the sea had a soothing
influence and Bartlett let his book fall from his hands and slept,
stretched at ease in the steamer chair. A door gently opening and
softly shutting aroused him. He sat up, yawned and grunted.
"Hello," drawled a voice, slow, indifferent, familiar.
Bartlett recalled a week in June, when, with rare credulity, he had
kidnapped a stranger and had discovered that he had been the one in
truth to be kidnapped. He turned his head and saw the Watermelon
crossing the room. He knew that it was the boy by the size of the
shoulders and the grace of the long limbs, but the thin, good-natured
face was covered with a month's growth of light hair, the brown suit
with the pale green and red stripe was a suit no longer, merely a bundle
of rags. The shirt was opened at the throat, without a tie or button,
while the panama was shapeless and colorless, but worn with the familiar
jaunty ease.
"Ah," said Bartlett. "Jeroboam Martin."
He smiled as one who meets an old and congenial friend, for Jeroboam
Martin had shown a fine capability for getting out of a tight place and
carrying through a desired project with success and nerve, and Bartlett
had grown to like the lad.
"Am I bum enough?" asked the Watermelon, with no answering smile. When
one has come to test love, life is too grim for smiles.
"You are fairly dirty and shabby," agreed Bartlett. "You look thin."
"I have had hard luck," said the Watermelon. "How's Billy?"
"Pretty well, thanks."
"Expecting me?" asked the Watermelon, taking off his hat and gently
patting his back hair as he had a way of doing.