"Hully Gee!" rumbled the lad. "Here's another one that ought to be buried!"
"Mrs. Fulton"—it was Gray speaking—"I took the liberty of asking your son—"
Buddy Briskow heard no more, for his ears were roaring. Her son! That voice! Being little more than a boy himself, nothing could have hurt him more cruelly than this; his impulse was to flee the room, for his world had come down in crashing ruin. She had lied! She had made a fool of him. Gray had been right.
The others were still talking when Buddy broke in faintly. His battered visage was white, his lips were colorless. "I reckon this—ends my part of the entertainment," said he. Slowly he seated himself and bowed his head in his hands, for he had become quite ill.
Arline Montague—Margie Fulton—once the blow had fallen, behaved rather well; she took Bennie in her arms and kissed him, then in answer to his quick look of dismay at her agitation, she patted him on the shoulder and said: "It's all right, son. You didn't know."
"Didn't know what?" demanded the lad. "Say—" He stared angrily from one face to another. "Is it a plant?"
"Hush! You wouldn't understand."
Bennie's suspicions now were in full play, and his gaze came to rest upon Calvin Gray; his eyes began to blaze. "You—you big bum!" he cried. "I might have known you were a double-crosser."
"Hush, Bennie, please!"
"I'll get you for this." The midget was quivering with rage. "You'll look worse 'n that, you—you big bum!"