“My God, Bill!” said Norris, “I don’t know. But it’s bad—bad! To think that Jennie Brent, of all⸺”
“And she won’t let me quit, either. I’ve promised her to stay with it, whatever.”
“Well, that sounds like Jennie, anyhow. All grit. Always thought so.”
“But it’s killing her slowly!” wailed Billy. “I can see it.”
“Bill,” said Norris, “damned if I know what to say. You’re in an awful fix now, all right. And so is Jennie. But perhaps,” he added brightening, “she’ll get over it after a while—after you’re married.”
Billy shook his head.
“She won’t,” he denied. “It’s getting the best of her by the minute, John.”
Norris considered, puffing at the black brier clenched in his teeth.
“I give it up,” he conceded at last. “But I’ll tell you what I think, Bill. This is a funny game we’re in. Queer things are always happening as if—as if they were made to order. You know what I mean. Take me. I had the wind up for six months—you remember? And nobody suspected a thing—only you. Then just when I was walking in on the C. O. to tell him I was through the adjutant stopped me and handed me my orders to fly the XT-1 from Aberdeen to San Diego. I said I couldn’t. But the C. O. and the D. M. A. insisted that I not only could but I would. Well, when I finished that hop to California alive I figured nothing was going to happen to me until it happened. I was cured. Something always turns up in this game, Bill. Something’ll turn up for you. And remember this, Bill. Things don’t happen in this world. It is my belief that they’re arranged.”
“If I could catch the bird who does my arranging for me, then,” exploded Billy, “by golly, I’d⸺”