“Miss Kate—we've had a falling out.”
St. George lowered his head suddenly and gave a low whistle:—“Falling out?—what about?”
Again young Rutter glanced at Todd, whose back was turned, but whose ears were stretched to splitting point. His host nodded understandingly.
“There, Todd—that will do; now go down and get your breakfast. No more waffles, tell Aunt Jemima. Bring the pipes over here and throw on another log... that's right.” A great sputtering of sparks followed—a spider-legged, mahogany table was wheeled into place, and the dejected darky left the room for the regions below.
“So you two have had a quarrel! Oh, Harry!—when will you learn to think twice before you speak? Whose fault was it?” sighed St. George, filling the bowl of his pipe with his slender fingers, slowly tucking in each shred and grain.
“Mine.”
“What did you say?” (Puff-puff.)
“Nothing—I couldn't. She came in and saw it all.” The boy had his elbows on the table now, his cheeks sunk in his hands.
St. George looked up: “Drunk, were you?”
“Yes.”