“What the—” he began. “Say, Jac, are you sick?”
The ache came in Jac’s throat again. Her face changed color and the freckles across the bridge of her nose stood out with a startling distinctness.
“Don’t I dance good enough, Harry?” He had evidently been bracing himself for a straight-from-the-shoulder retort. At this gentle question he gasped and rose with a look of brotherly concern.
“Jac, if you was a man I’d say you’d been hittin’ the red-eye too much.”
“Oh,” said Jac.
Harry touched her under the chin and tilted back her head. The deep-blue eyes stared miserably up to him.
“What’s the matter with her, pa?” he asked.
“Plain foolishness!” said the latter.
Jac struck the hand from her chin and leaped from the table to her feet.
“Harry,” she said, “if I was a man I’d hang a bunch of fives on your chin!”