“Oh, ho!” Mary burst out upon him, arms akimbo. “So that's what it means. That's what the emery in your vest pocket meant.”
Her husband ignored her. Tom smoked with a troubled air. Billy was hurt. It showed plainly in his face.
“You ain't ben doin' that, Bert?” he asked, his manner showing his expectancy of his friend's denial.
“Sure thing, if you want to know. I'd see'm all in hell if I could, before I go.”
“He's a bloody-minded anarchist,” Mary complained. “Men like him killed McKinley, and Garfield, an'—an' an' all the rest. He'll be hung. You'll see. Mark my words. I'm glad there's no children in sight, that's all.”
“It's hot air,” Billy comforted her.
“He's just teasing you,” Saxon soothed. “He always was a josher.”
But Mary shook her head.
“I know. I hear him talkin' in his sleep. He swears and curses something awful, an' grits his teeth. Listen to him now.”
Bert, his handsome face bitter and devil-may-care, had tilted his chair back against the wall and was singing