"Dirty and drunk and sick and always," promised Billy. "Only you won't drink, because I love you."
"Love never yet stood between a man and the whisky bottle," sneered the Watermelon. "You don't know men, kid."
He let her go and turned away with a shamed laugh. "Good-by, Billy."
"Good-by, Jerry," replied Billy, frightened at she knew not what, realizing that there were after all things in men's lives of which she knew nothing. She walked with him to the fence and watched him swing over it.
"Cross-cuts for me," he explained, holding out his hand. She placed hers in it and he crushed her small fingers until they hurt, then turning abruptly, left her there among the brambles, watching him across the bars.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE POET OR THE POODLE
The day was unusually hot for late August in Maine. The grass was brown and dry, the leaves hung limply on the trees and the dust in the roads was ankle deep. No breeze came from the sea, while the sails of the pleasure boats drooped in warm dejection. Every one had sought shelter from the sun, and wharfs, streets and houses of the small seaport town appeared deserted.
Bartlett had taken himself off to the dim seclusion of the house, where he lounged with windows opened, blinds drawn and a small table of cooling beverages near at hand. The heat, the drowsy, shrill hum of the crickets and the muffled, monotonous roar of the sea had a soothing influence and Bartlett let his book fall from his hands and slept, stretched at ease in the steamer chair. A door gently opening and softly shutting aroused him. He sat up, yawned and grunted.
"Hello," drawled a voice, slow, indifferent, familiar.