“Well then, why does Mr. Cram hate David so?”
“My God!” exclaimed Red, dropping a wrench, “how did you discover that?”
“He’s been talking to me, about himself mostly, and he didn’t say a word about David that you could pin to, but he hates him poisonously.”
“Honest, Miss Hammond,” said Red admiringly, “you are one smart girl.”
“Well, you know it, too.”
“I do so,” said Red, “but David doesn’t. Not he! He’s got more brains and better, than anyone I know, but no common sense when it comes to side-steppin’ a rattler.”
“But why? What’s the answer?” demanded Dulcie.
“How long have you known him?” hedged Red.
“Cram? Oh, two or three years. I used to go down to Princeton for dances and whatnot. That’s where I first heard of David. The three men who dragged me around to rabbles were friends of his at prep school.”
“Yeah, Butter Brown, and Len, and Smithy?”