“No, I haven’t, I know that they are going to England, and that is all.”
Donald sat down dejectedly.
Andy’s face softened. “Do you like Connie?” he queried.
“Like her? I love her!”
“In that case I don’t see ’ow she didn’t let you know where to find ’er,” puzzled Andy.
“She doesn’t know that I care for her,” said Donald gloomily.
Andy’s mouth opened. He seized Donald by the shoulder. “Do you mean to tell me that you let that girl get away from you without letting ’er know that you wanted ’er?” he demanded incredulously. “Strike me ’andsome,” blazed Andy, “of all the blinkin’ mutts in this ’ere world—you—you——” Speech failed him for a moment. “You let that dear little girl go away broken-’earted. . . .”
“Andy,” interrupted Donald eagerly, “do you think Connie cares for me?”
For a moment, as he looked into his friend’s face, Andy was tempted to tell him of the scene after his fight with Hand. But the promise to Connie sealed his lips.
“ ’Ow the ’ell should I know?” he mumbled. “But,” he added with fine sarcasm, “if bone was ten cents a cubic foot you’d be a multi-millionaire, you blinkin’ pie-eyed nincompoop—you—you——” He clapped a tragic hand to his brow. “You give me a ’eadache,” and muttering to himself, he trudged up the hill.