“Mighty queer, Berty.”
“Do you know, when I first began my story of the Bethany affair the dear old Judge was inclined to stand off and criticize.”
“That was the man of him. He would like to have been consulted and to have engineered the affair.”
“In anticipating these revelations I really supposed that he would fall on my neck when I told him what we had done,” continued Berty, thoughtfully.
“And you say he didn’t—just stood back and criticised? How funny,” and Tom laughed irrepressibly.
“But he changed,” pursued Berty, earnestly. “It seemed to come over him that a dreadful fate might have been poor Bethany’s if we had not rescued her.”
“Of course he changed—would have been a donkey if he hadn’t,” said Tom, disrespectfully. “You’re all right, Berty—always were and always will be.”
“And so are you, Tom,” she responded, generously.
“However, speaking of Bethany,” he went on, “no dreadful fate would have overtaken her for a while. Suppose the women had made off with her. They would have taken mighty good care of her till the ransom business was settled.”
Berty shuddered. “Suppose no ransom had been given?”