"Yes, sir," sobbed Janice. "I always have liked you, Mr. Cross Moore. But now I can't bear even to look at you! I don't approve of you at all—not one little bit!"
CHAPTER XV
AND NOW IT IS DISTANT TROUBLE
Mr. Massey had been attending to the overcome Hopewell Drugg. He mixed him something and forced it down his throat. Then he whispered to Frank Bowman:
"It was brandy. I can smell it on his breath. Pshaw! Hopewell's a harmless critter. Why couldn't they let him alone?"
Frank had taken up the violin. The moisture had got to it a little on the back and the young man thoughtlessly held it near the fire to dry. Hopewell's eyes opened and almost immediately he staggered to his feet, reaching for the instrument.
"Wrong! wrong!" he muttered. "Never do that. Crack the varnish. Spoil the tone."
"Hullo, old fellow!" said Mr. Massey, patting Hopewell on the shoulder.
"Guess you feel better—heh?"
"Ye—yes. Why! that you, Massey?" ejaculated the storekeeper, in surprise.
"'Twas me when I got up this mornin'," grunted the druggist.