“Fishing—yes,” he said quietly, unable to control the flush that had risen unbidden to his temples. “No shooting.”
“That’s funny,” went on the blissful Endicott with a laugh. “I heard you got a deer, Phil.”
“Oh, yes, one——”
“A two-legged one—with skirts.”
Gallatin started—his face pale.
“Who told you that?” he asked, his jaw setting.
“Oh, don’t get sore, Phil. Somebody’s brought the story down from Montreal—about your being lost in the woods—and—and all that,” he finished lamely. “Sorry I butted in.”
“So am I,” said Gallatin, stiffly.
Percy’s face crimsoned, and he stammered out an apology. He knew he had made a mistake. Gossip that he was, he did not make it a habit to intrude upon other men’s personal affairs, especially men like Gallatin who were intolerant of meddlers; but the story was now common property and to that extent at least he was justified.
“Don’t be unpleasant, Phil, there’s a good chap. I only thought——”