They sat down on the tiny, weather-stained step, side by side, in the gathering dusk.
"Billy," began the Watermelon earnestly, and then stopped.
Poor little Billy's heart fluttered and she put her hand to her hair in her nervousness. "You know," she said firmly, irrelevantly, "I love you, Jerry."
"I know, dear," replied the Watermelon. "And I love you. No matter where I am, Billy, no matter what happens, you are the best in me and I will keep you best. I'm shiftless, lazy, no 'count, but Billy, kid, I'll always love you."
"And we will get married and live happily ever after," crooned Billy.
"I'm going away to-night, Billy, back to the road."
"Oh, Jerry, please, clear. If father knew how much I care—"
"No, Billy, your father's right. He said to give you time; for me to go away for a while and maybe you would get—over it."
"And if I did," demanded Billy, "if I loved another, wouldn't you be jealous? Wouldn't you kill that other, Jeroboam Martin?" She clenched her small fist and pounded him on the knee to emphasize the passion in her voice.
"If he were a decent chap—" stammered the Watermelon, "it would be better for you."