"Really," says De Vronde, frowning "you'll have to stop this brawling, Adams! I can't have my man—"
Adams gives him the up and down.
"Aw, shut up!" he snarls—and blows.
Well, right now I'm a million miles up in the air and no more interested in the thing than the bartenders was in final returns of the prohibition vote. They's two things I can't figure at all. One of 'em is why Adams should knock a man kickin' for roastin' De Vronde, who didn't have a friend in the place, and the other is what Duke and them camera men is doin' there.
About a week blows by, and then Miss Devine rides out alone one mornin' on a big white stallion. In a hour the horse trots into camp with the saddle empty. For the next twenty minutes they's more excitement in and about Film City than they was at the burnin' of Rome, but while Duke is gettin' up searchin' parties, Adams has cranked up Miss Devine's roadster and is a speck of dust goin' towards Frisco.
It was around five o'clock that afternoon, when he comes back and Miss Devine is sittin' beside him. Her ankle is all bound up with handkerchiefs and Adams is drivin' very slow and careful. He stops and then turns to help her outa the car, but she dodges his arm, steps down all by herself and without any sign of a limp, walks into the general offices.
Adams stands lookin' after her for a minute, kinda stunned.
"What was the matter?" I asks him, runnin' up.
"Why," he says, without lookin' at me; "she broke—she said she broke her ankle. She—"
Then he turns and runs the car into the garage.