Checkers started for the house, but stopped half-way, and turned for a parting word, while Arthur stood still, and eyed him malignantly.
"Now, listen, Arthur Kendall," said Checkers earnestly; "and these are the last words I 'm going to say. I 've been on the square with you from the day I met you, and if our positions were reversed, I 'd take you by the hand and wish you all kinds of happiness, but as it is, you show the yellow streak I always thought you had in you—it's wider than I thought it was, that's all. But just keep saying this over to yourself: 'I love that girl and I 'm going to have her, in spite of her father, or you, or the world.'" And turning on his heel, Checkers went into the house to collect his few, poor, little belongings.
VII.
That same night Pert, after another stormy interview with her father, had gone to her room, and, throwing herself on her little white bed, in a paroxysm of bitter grief, had softly sobbed herself to sleep.
Gradually into her dreams there came the whistled notes of a familiar little cadence, faint and far away at first, but growing louder and nearer until she awoke with a start.
It was "a whistle" which Checkers had taught her weeks before, and ran as follows:
Come, my love, and walk with me.
Yes, my love, I'll walk with thee.
Ta-ra-dum.
