Try as he would, he could not prevent the moisture from emanating out of his blinking eyes. He presented a pitiable contrast to his recent triumphant state, and he knew it. His other eye had also become afflicted with the same foreign substance, now making his visionary powers difficult with either one. And he was sore at the world. Sore, because he was afraid that he wouldn’t be able to convince Rip Langley of the true cause of his affliction.
He knew what Rip would think when he caught sight of his tear-stained face; that he was crying because he had just left his father and mother behind. That’s what Rip would think.
For some reason or other, Westy had a feeling about Rip already. He felt that this boy, his junior by a year and a half, was something of a skeptic and it was his first move to set him on the right track at the start.
Presently then, Westy sauntered in the smoking room with an air of perfect nonchalance. His friends were lounging about—Rip included.
Stepping up to a large mirror over the lounge, Westy made a great pretense of examining and administering to his overflowing orbs.
“’Lo!” said Rip suddenly, but friendly.
“’Lo!” answered Westy, relieved but yet feeling Rip’s searching eyes at his back.
Mr. Wilde also looked up with the inevitable unlighted cigar in his mouth and the derby hat in its accustomed place. He smiled.
Fine, so far, Westy commented to himself secretly.
“Well, what’s the dirt?” Rip questioned, typical of himself and looking straight at Westy.