“New Canadian champion, whose spectacular defeat of Garrieau stamps him as a master of fistiana and places him in line to meet the world’s top-notchers.”
A pugilist! And she had proudly introduced him to her friends! Why hadn’t Douglas told her? She threw herself into a chair and gave herself over to a period of gloomy contemplation.
Whistling softly, Douglas shut off the hall lights and entered the room. “Not in bed yet? You’d better——” he broke off suddenly as she turned cold eyes upon him.
“Why didn’t you tell me that your friend is a pugilist?” she demanded as she thrust the offending sheet in Douglas’s hand. “In the glove business!” she went on sarcastically. “That may be your idea of a joke, but I don’t see anything funny about it.” And without waiting for an answer she flung herself angrily from the room.
Douglas lighted a cigarette, which he smoked with short angry puffs as he walked the floor. He kicked viciously at an inoffensive footstool and sent it hurtling across the room. “Damn!” Then throwing the half-smoked cigarette in the fireplace, he switched off the light and sought his bed.
CHAPTER VII
In spite of the late hour of his retiring, Donald was up early and was the first of the party to reach the dock. Gillis and Andy arrived soon after, the latter staggering manfully under his heavy pack, a rifle swinging loosely in his hand.
Donald stepped forward as Douglas appeared. His face fell as he saw that he was alone. “Isn’t your sister coming?” he asked.
Douglas avoided Donald’s direct gaze. He leaned over to fumble needlessly with the straps of his duffle-bags. “She’s peeved; saw your photograph in last night’s paper.”
“I’m sorry,” said Donald, obviously distressed.