“Oh—well—”
“See here, ole stick-in-the-mud,” Fred broke out abruptly. “After her saying what she did— Well, it's none o' my business, but—but—”
“Well, what?” Ramsey murmured. “I don't care what you say, if you want to say anything.”
“Well, I got to say it,” Fred half groaned and half blurted. “After she said that—and she meant it—why, if I were in your place I'd be darned if I'd be seen out walking with her again.”
“I'm not going to be,” Ramsey said, quietly.
“By George!” And now Fred halted in front of him, both being huskily solemn. “I think I understand a little of what that means to you, old Ramsey; I think I do. I think I know something of what it costs you to make that resolution for your country's sake.” Impulsively he extended his hand. “It's a pretty big thing for you to do. Will you shake hands?”
But Ramsey shook his head. “I didn't do it. I wouldn't ever have done anything just on account of her talkin' that way. She shut the door on me—it was a good while ago.”
“She did! What for?”
“Well, I'm not much of a talker, you know, Fred,” said Ramsey, staring at the pen he played with. “I'm not much of anything, for that matter, prob'ly, but I—well—I—”
“You what?”