“That doesn’t sound just like you, Walt. Besides, I just don’t like Bessie’s name mentioned in this connection.”
“Of course not. I appreciate that, Davy, and I’ll be good.”
“Well, you needn’t be sarcastic, Walt. It’s not your most becoming style.”
“If I had anything to bet,” replied Bascomb, “I’d lay three to one you’ll win out,—marry the siren child,—suppress the Cyclops, and become one of our ‘most influential,’ etc.”
“You would probably lose. Especially on the siren child, as you call her. By the way, where’s Smoke?”
“Reasonable question, my son, but unanswerable. We parted company somewhere near Tramworth, without explanations or regrets, on Smoke’s part anyway. That dog’s cut out for a bushwhacker. Boston’s too tame for him after that ‘Indian Pete’ affair. Wonder whom he’ll massacre next? I was beginning to get a bit shy of him myself.”
“He probably felt it, and vamoosed,” said David.
“He probably felt hungry,” replied Bascomb, with an unpleasant laugh. “A man’s in a bad way when his dog won’t stick to him. Perhaps he smelt the wolf at the door of the house of Bascomb.”
“You’re drawing it pretty fine, Wallie.”
“Oh, damn the dog, and you, too.”