"You didn't tell her it was my plan?" begged Bartlett. "I have to go on living with her."
"No, I didn't tell her, but she's next to the fact."
"I will speak to her," said Bartlett hastily. "I wouldn't like Henrietta to find out about it. Billy has wanted a motor boat for some time. I may give her one."
They walked slowly toward the door and once more shook hands.
"I would gladly have given the thousands I have lost to have you Batchelor, boy," said Bartlett gently.
"Aw, thanks," said the Watermelon.
"Tell the others I will be around when I have sent another telegram."
The Watermelon found Billy sitting on the steps of the only hotel in town. It was a big, square, uncompromising affair, blank and unattractive, and Billy, alone on the top step, looked somehow small and forlorn and child-like. The Watermelon sat down beside her.
"Where's Henrietta?" he asked, ignoring her eyes and the question they asked.
"Up-stairs," said Billy, "fixing up." She raised her hands to her own soft hair and bit her lip to get up courage to voice the question her eyes had already asked.