She laughed.
“Never; what an idea!”
“I believe you can manage him,” he said, watching her as she stood lightly, her head thrown a little back, and her eyes softened by a touch of amusement. “Say, take an hour’s nap. Let me relieve you.”
“No, no,” she said; “I am the only one who can quiet him.” And, conscious of the understanding that now lay between them, she added solemnly: “O’Leary, he is in a bad way. That’s a fact.”
It was not until well into the afternoon, after Flick had returned with the pugilists, that the memory of Drinkwater suddenly returned to King O’Leary. He gave forth an exclamation with such suddenness that Tootles bounded across the rug, saying angrily:
“For the love of Mike, man, don’t do that—don’t do it! My nerves won’t stand it!”
“What the deuce are you going to do?” said Flick, observing him to rise, make for the door, and as abruptly return. The pugilists, who were being utilized as models for heroic bodies in the monumental decoration of Tootles, shifted and watched him hopefully as though scenting a call to arms.
O’Leary sat down and began to stare at the one-eyed bear on the floor with such impressive mental concentration that they watched him in silence.
“By George, I believe the whole thing was planned!” he said, striking his leg.
“Planned? Of course it was planned,” said Flick.