Another potential silence.
“Freddy goes about with her a good deal more than he ought to,” said Riggs at last. “They're together two-thirds of the time. Why—why, he heels her like a trained dog. Playing the pianner morning, noon, and night, and out driving, and going to the theatre, and——”
“I've a notion to tell Jim he ought to put a stop to it,” said the other. “It makes me sick.”
“Jim'll do it without being told one o' these days, so you keep out of it. Say, have you noticed how piqued Lydia's looking these times? She's not the same girl, Dan; not the same girl. Something's wrong.” He shook his head gloomily.
“It's that dog-goned woman,” announced Dawes explosively, and then looked over his shoulder with apprehension. A sigh of relief escaped him.
“She's got no business coming in between Lydia and Freddy,” said Riggs. “Looks as though she's just set on busting it up. What can she possibly have against poor little Lydia? She's good enough for Freddy. Too good, by hokey! 'Specially when you stop to think.”
“Now don't begin gossiping,” warned Dawes, glaring at him. “You're as bad as an old woman.”
“Thinking ain't gossiping, confound you! If I wanted to gossip I'd up and say flatly that Jim Brood knows down in his soul that Freddy is no son of his. He——”
“You've never heard him say so, Joe.”
“No; but I can put two and two together. I'm no fool.”