"It—I don't want no one to hear me," said the boy, with a motion toward the log and Billy's slim young back.
The Watermelon hesitated, but in the shifty eyes he saw fear and deference. If he knew the Watermelon for a tramp, there would be no deference.
"Gwan, spit it out," ordered the Watermelon. "I ain't keen for the pleasure of hearing any of your heart to heart secrets."
"It's very important," said the boy, "and no one must hear."
"I suppose you think every one is busting to hear your words of wisdom," said the Watermelon. "Probably get a dime a word, eh?"
"It's about you," said the boy, harsh with impatience and nervousness. "It's—" He drew a piece of paper from his pocket and held it out. "He gave me that to send."
"Who are you?"
"The telegraph clerk," whispered the boy, with a frightened glance toward Billy on the log.
The Watermelon read the paper and smiled a slow, sweet smile of anticipated pleasure as the full import of Bartlett's telegram became clear. He glanced at Billy and his smile deepened. Then he turned and drew the boy farther away.
"Bartlett sent this, eh?"