The Watermelon flushed. "Why—er—"
"Father knew you were an enemy. He told me that you, Batchelor, I mean, had made him lose a lot of money last week and would probably make him lose more next week. Maybe father thought as you did, that if you were out of the city—" she knitted her brows and gazed off across the valley. "Father telegraphed just before we went to that place behind the bam, right after dinner. I know, for I saw him go to the office. Why don't you tell me the truth, Jerry?"
"God, Billy, ain't I giving you the straight goods?"
"Not about father," replied Bartlett's daughter gravely.
"Why—er—he may have telegraphed—"
"Certainly, he did," said Billy. "This whole trip was father's idea." She brushed the subject aside as one to be returned to later. "Tell me, Jerry, isn't your father a minister?"
"Yes, that's straight. He was poor, darned poor. We were all poor. He used to say that a man with more children than brains had no place in the ministry."
"I should think that possibly your father had brains," suggested Billy.
"Yes," admitted the Watermelon. "But they didn't keep pace with the children."
"What happened to you all? Why—er—why couldn't you have worked at something?"