Bartlett laughed. "Quite so. Wash out on the line, general. Better come."
"Pretend the Indians have risen," said Henrietta, "and you are given an hour to get into marching order."
"Ah, yes," cried the eager Billy, patting the arm she clung to. "You used to do it, General, why, in half an hour, out on the plains."
"What do you know about it, puss?" asked the general.
"Didn't you?" pleaded Billy.
"Yes," said the general, who always gave in to a pretty woman. "I used to. In those days we were always ready for a fight."
"So you will go? I knew you would."
"But Mr. Batchelor may have to return to the city," suggested Henrietta, glancing at the Watermelon.
Bartlett shot a glance at the young man and began to whistle softly through his teeth as he indifferently raised the bonnet of his car and examined the clean, well-ordered machinery within. Would Billy's charms be enough to hold the young man against his better judgment? Could he forget what the next week meant to him, forget the lure of the Street, the rise and fall of stocks, in the light of a woman's eyes, in the sound of a woman's laugh? If Billy could not keep him, what could? He must be kept. A week with him out of the way, the ring could be renewed, strengthened, that which was lost, regained. Bartlett bent low over his car, but he heard Billy, sweetly speaking to the Watermelon.
"You don't have to return to the city, do you? You would much rather go with us, wouldn't you?"