That continued for almost a week, and then there came a day, a scant three days before the date which he had hungrily underlined in red upon a mental calendar, which brought the whole vexing indecision to a precipitate head.
Old Jerry read that day’s column in the sporting extra with weazened face going red with anger––read it with fists knotted. Those others had been merely skeptical––doubtful of “The Pilgrim’s” willingness to meet the champion––and now it openly scoffed at him; it laughed at his ability, lashed him 271 with ridicule. And, to cap it all, it accused him openly of having already “sold out” to his opponent.
When the little white-haired driver of the buggy reached the house on the hill that night he was as pale as he had been red, hours before, and he pleaded fatigue to excuse his too hasty departure. He did not see that she was almost as openly eager to have him go or that she almost ran across to the table under the light with the packet of papers as he turned away.
Had he noticed he would have been better prepared the next night for the scene that met him when he opened her door at dusk. One step was all he took, and then he stopped, wide-eyed, aghast. Dryad was standing in the middle of the room, her hair loose about her shoulders, lips drawn dangerously back from tight little teeth, fists clenched at her throat, and her eyes flaming.
Old Jerry had never before seen her in a rage; he had never before seen anybody so terribly, pallidly violent. As he entered her eyes shot up to his. He heard her breath come and go, come and go, between dry lips. And suddenly she lifted her feet and stamped upon the newspaper strewn about her on the floor––infinitesimal shreds which she had torn and flung from her.
“It’s a lie!” she gasped. “It’s a lie––a lie! They said he couldn’t win anyway; they said he had sold––sold 272 his chance to win––and they lie! He’s never been whipped. He’s never––been––whipped––yet!”
It frightened him. The very straining of her throat and the mad rise and fall of her breast made him afraid for her. In his effort to quiet her he hardly reckoned what he was saying.
“Why, it––it don’t mean nothin’,” he stated mildly. “That newspaper trash ain’t no account, anyway you look at it.”
“Then why do they print it?” she stormed. “How do they dare to print it? They’ve been doing it for days––weeks!”
He felt more equal to that question. The answer fairly popped into his brain.