“I’m hustling all right.”
“That’s good. Well, good-by, son. I’ll be short of funds presently, but that doesn’t worry me. I’m having the time of my life. By-by, dear boy.”
“By-by, dad, dear.”
“Hold on, Mr. Bennett.” It was the telephone operator once more. “There’s another party that’s bound to speak to you, and take it from me I don’t like the sound of his voice. I hope he isn’t like that first party that was talking to you. What us poor girls has to put up with is something shameful, and—All right. Go ahead.”
“This is Dickie,” said a voice. “Say! you leave my girl alone. I’ve heard of your goings-on.”
“Who told you?” asked Bob. “That Peeping Tom? That maniac-medico?”
“I told you before I was going to marry her. You keep off the premises if you know what is good for you.” Dickie was so mad he was childish.
“No, you’re not going to marry her,” said Bob.
“You—you don’t mean to say you’re engaged to her?” came back in choked tones.
“No. She’s only my jolly little pal. But she thinks a lot of what I tell her and I’ll pick out a real man for her some day. You aren’t good enough. A chap that will punch another chap when he can’t defend himself isn’t the chap for jolly little pal.”