As the time drew near Galt swelled with mystery. He could not help dropping now and then at dinner a hint of something that might be coming to pass. He addressed it always to Natalie, for the benefit of the others. He looked at her solemnly one evening and contorted a nursery rhyme:
Who got ’em in?
Little Johnnie Quinn
Who got’ em out?
Big John Stout.
“Old silly,” said Natalie. “You’ve got it wrong. It goes—”
“Now let me alone,” he said. “I’ve got it the way I want it. What do you know about it? Poor little outcast! No place to go. Nobody to take her in.”
He leaned over to pet her consolingly.
“Stop it!” she said, attacking him. They scuffled. Some dishes were overturned. She caught a napkin under his chin and tied it over the top of his head.
“All right,” he mumbled. “You’ll be sorry. You wait and see.”