“Your—your—” he sputtered apoplectically.
“My wife,” returned the youth, a sheepish pride in look and words. “It was that I came up here to speak to you about this morning. You were so busy yesterday when I got to town that——”
“Are you going to tell me about this thing, or have I got to shake it out of you?” Page [61].
“Jerry, you ass! Are you crazy or only drunk?”
“Father,” protested Gerald with a petulance that only half hid his growing nervousness, “I do wish you’d call me ‘Gerald,’ and drop that wretched nickname. If——”
He got no further. Conover was upon him, his tough, knotty hands gripping the youngster’s shoulders and shaking him to and fro with a force that set Gerald’s teeth clicking.
“Now then!” bellowed the Railroader, mighty, masterful, terrible as he let the breathless lad slide to the floor and towered wrathful above him. “Are you going to tell me about this thing, or have I got to shake it out of you? Speak up!”
Gulping, panting, all the spirit momentarily buffeted out of him, Gerald Conover lay staring stupidly up at the angry man.
“I’m—I’m married!” he bleated. “I—I meant to tell you when——”