“I haven’t a doubt but he’d make the attempt,” nodded Frank.
“An’ he kin fight,” the Vermonter went on. “Aout at Ace High, when we was up against all them ruffians, he fought like a dozen tigers all rolled inter one. That’s ernnther thing that makes me think a little somethin’ of him.”
“Yes,” agreed Merry, “Bart is a good fighter. The only trouble with him is that he is too ready to fight. There are times when one should avoid a fight, if possible; but Hodge never recognizes any of those times. I never knew him to try to avoid a fight.”
“Waal,” drawled Ephraim, with a yawn, “I’m goin’ to bed. Good-night, Frank.”
“Good-night.”
Merry closed the door after Gallup and carefully locked and bolted it. Then he sat down, took a letter from his pocket, and read it through from beginning to end. When he had finished, he pressed the missive to his lips, murmuring:
“Elsie! Elsie! dear little sweetheart!”
For some time he sat there, thinking, thinking. His face flushed and paled softened and glowed again; sometimes he looked sad, and sometimes he smiled. Had a friend been there, he might have read Frank’s thoughts by the changing expressions on his face.
At last Merry put away the letter, after kissing it again, and, having wound up his watch, undressed and prepared for bed. His bed stood in a little alcove of the room, and he drew the curtains back, exposing it. Donning pajamas, he soon was in bed. Reaching out, he pressed a button, and—snap!—out went the gas, turned off by electricity.
Frank composed himself to sleep. The dull rumble of the not yet sleeping city came up from the streets and floated in at his open window. The sound turned after a time to a musical note that was like that which comes from an organ, and it lulled him to sleep.