"Yes," said the Watermelon, "I love her and will not let her know."
He straightened up and pushed his hat farther back, with the slow, inbred languor of the thoroughly lazy man. "I love Billy, and that is why I consent. I tried to make her understand what I am, have been, but I couldn't." He took a handful of beans from a near-by barrel and let them run slowly through his fingers. "I suppose she will give me the double cross."
"I hope so," answered Bartlett. "I'm not very particular, but a tramp—"
"A gentleman pedestrian," suggested the Watermelon, with a faint flicker of his usual sublime arrogance.
Bartlett laughed and held out his hand. "Well, good-by. I've enjoyed the week immensely, for all this rotten ending. That scurvy trick of yours—"
"Of yours," corrected the Watermelon.
"Yes, yes, I suppose so. I hope that Henrietta won't ever know. Do you think Billy does?"
"Billy isn't as simple as you think," returned the Watermelon.
"What did she say?"
"'Father suggested the trip and he telegraphed after dinner,' or something like that."