"There goes your temper again. That is one thing that hasn't changed," she said. And then: "Poor Jerry! You'd have to have one hand tied behind you, wouldn't you?—just to be reasonably fair, you know."
There had been a time when I should have admitted that her gibe hit the mark, but that was before the transformed—or transforming—Jerry had been revealed to me.
"Nothing like that," I said. "He may not have confided it to you, but Jerry is a man of his hands. Hasn't he ever shown you the medal he won in England?"
She shook her head. "There are lots of things Jerry hasn't shown me—yet."
"Well, he has the medal, and it says he was the top-notcher in his class in some London boxing club. I give him credit for that; but just the same, there have been times during the past few days when I've had a curious longing to see how near I could come to throwing him bodily across the lagoon."
Again she said, "Poor Jerry!" and had the calm assurance to ask me what he had done to incur my ill will.
"Done!" I exclaimed. "What hasn't he done? If he thinks he is going to be allowed to play fast and loose with you for a chit of a girl like Beatrice Van Tromp——"
Once more her silvery laugh interrupted.
"Beatrice will be twenty-three on her next birthday. She is quite well able to fight her own battles, Mr. Dickie Preble."
"Oh, confound it all; you know what I mean!" I fumed hotly. "He has asked you to marry him, hasn't he?"