"About six weeks ago."
Desmond flung out an oath.
"Confound you!" he cried hotly. "What do you think she's imagining by now? All manner of hideous impossibilities. I suppose you never gave that a thought——"
The Boy looked up quickly, pain and pleading in his blue eyes. "I say, Desmond, don't hit so straight. I know I've been a brute to her; and I feel bad enough about it, without being slanged—by you."
Theo Desmond's face softened, and he took the Boy's shoulders between his hands.
"My dear lad," he said gently. "I'm sorry if I hit too hard. But I feel rather strongly on that subject. I've no wish to slang you. I only want to set you on your feet, and keep you there. So we may as well get to business at once."
"Set me on my feet! How the devil's that to be done?"
Desmond smiled.
"It's simply a question of making up one's mind to things. In the first place we must sell Roland. He's the best pony you have."
Harry straightened himself sharply, but Desmond's gesture commanded silence.