“Say, Mermaid,” he began, and then faltered a moment in the performance of his unpleasant duty. “We—we never see anything of you any more these days,” he finished. It was not just the thing, but it was, perhaps, best to lead up to the point gradually.
Mermaid seemed unaware that anything was wrong.
“Come down to the house, Tommy, and I’ll give you a cookie,” she invited him sweetly.
“I don’t believe I want a cookie. I don’t believe I want anything to eat,” answered Mr. Lupton, seriously.
Mermaid looked at him with attention. “You aren’t sick, are you?” she said, anxiously. “There’s two cases of scarlet fever in Patchogue, I heard. You ought not to be going there to high school if you feel that way.”
Indignation at the turn the conversation was taking overcame Mr. Lupton. He did not want to talk about himself but about Mermaid, and particularly about the dangerous acquaintances—well, acquaintance—she was cultivating. He abandoned the possible diplomatic approaches to the subject and blurted out: “What do you want to have anything to do with that Vanton feller, for, anyway, Mermaid? If we fellers don’t have anything to do with him I shouldn’t think you’d—you’d——” He stuck hopelessly.
Mermaid’s very bright blue eyes were on him and he found it difficult to collect his thoughts and present his argument.
“Shouldn’t think you’d—have him around,” he concluded, unhappily.
Mermaid lifted her chin and her eyes flashed.
“I’d like to know, Tommy Lupton, what you know about him, anyway!”