For a moment Will did not reply, but stood shaking like a blade of grass in a high wind. Then removing his hat, he mopped feebly at the beads of sweat upon his forehead. His eyes had the dumb appeal of a frightened animal's. "I haven't had a morsel all day," he whimpered, "and the effect of the whisky has all worn off."
"Speak up, man," said Christopher kindly. "I can't eat you."
"Oh, it's not you," returned Will desperately; "it's Molly. I'm afraid to go home and look Molly in the face."
"Pish! She doesn't bite."
"She does worse; she cries."
"Then, for God's sake, out with the trouble," urged Christopher, losing patience. "You've lost the money, I take it; but how?"
"There was a fair," groaned Will, his voice breaking. "I met Fred Turner and a strange man who owned horses, and they asked me to come and watch the racing. Then we had drinks and began to bet, and somehow I always lost after the first time. Before I knew it the money was all gone, every single cent, and I owed Fred Turner a hundred and fifty dollars."
Christopher's gaze travelled slowly up and down the slight figure before him and he swore softly beneath his breath.
"Well, you have made a mess of it!" he exclaimed with a laugh.
"I knew you'd say so, and you're the only friend I have on earth.
As for Molly—oh, I'm afraid to go home, that's all. Do you know,
I've half a mind to run away for good?"