“Her father said so at the Harmonie last night,” Kraemer told them. “She’ll be out of the hospital in a couple of weeks. Nothing broken, just shock, and a little concussion.... If Potter doesn’t die von Essen will kill him. He talked like a crazy man.”
“Wonder how she got mixed up with Potter?” Watts said. “She’s only a kid, isn’t she?”
“The speediest kid this town’s seen for a while. Regular little devil. Always up to something. They say she had old von Essen fighting for air most of the time.” La Mothe usually could be trusted to supply the spice. “Natural enough she and Potter should fly in a flock. Same kind of birds.”
“The rate Potter was traveling, he was bound to come a cropper some day,” said Randall, virtuously.
They were already speaking of him in the past tense; Potter Waite, in a couple of weeks, had become something that used to exist.
“You could trust him to make it a gilt-edged, sensational cropper when he got to it,” La Mothe rejoined. “He was one good scout.”
“But peculiar. He was all-fired peculiar,” Kraemer said, seriously. “I never quite understood him.”
“Well, the data’s all in, Wilhelm; there’ll never be any more. Study over it a few years and you may begin to get him.”
“You’ve got to hand it to Potter for one thing,” said Watts; “if he made up his mind to do a thing he would pull it off, hell or high water.”
There was a moment’s silence, a moment’s depression, then La Mothe said, “Seen the new girl that’s dancing at the Tuller?”