"Hardly!" exploded the Dummy. "Just toll her away."
"Why shouldn't I marry her?" Llewellyn demanded.
"I can think of five reasons," the Kid retorted. He tapped his chest with his finger. "Here's one, and there's the other four." He pointed to the other Wag-boys. "D'you think we'd let you marry her? Huh! I'd sooner marry her myself."
Llewellyn ended the discussion by stamping out of the cabin, cursing his partners with violence.
Business of the P. C. Company took Harry Hope to Council City in February; so the Wags felt easier—but only for a time. They found that June was grieving for him, and were plunged into deep despair until Scrap Iron came home with the explanation that the lovers had quarreled before parting. It was a signal for a celebration during which Reddy cooked wildly for a week, making puddings and pies and pastries, most of which were smuggled into June's cabin. Thomasville journeyed out to a certain roadhouse run by a Frenchman, and returned with a case of eggs wrapped up in a woolen comforter. It required the combined perjury of the other Wags to prove an alibi for him, but June had an omelet every morning thereafter.
Then, just as they were weaning her away, as they thought, the blow fell. It came with a crushing force that left them dumb and panic-stricken. June took pneumonia! The Scrap Iron Kid brought the first news of her illness, and he blubbered like a baby, while Dummy, the woman-hater, cursed like a man bereft.
"How d'you know it's pneumonia?" queried Thomasville.
"The doc says so. Me 'n' George dropped in with some beefsteaks we copped from the butcher, and found her in bed, coughing like the devil. She couldn't get up—pains in her boosum. We run for Doc Whiting and—fellers, it's true! George is there now." The Kid swallowed bravely, and two tears rolled down his cheeks.
The Wag-boys broke out of their cabin on the run, then strung out down the snow-banked street toward June's cabin, where they found Dr. Whiting, very grave, and Llewellyn with his face blanched and his lips tight drawn. They tiptoed in and stood against the wall in a silent, stricken row, twirling their caps and trying to ease the pain in their throats.
The Wag-lady was indeed very ill. Her yellow hair was tumbled over her pillow and she was in great pain, but she smiled at them and made a feeble jest—which broke in her throat, for she was young and all alone and very badly frightened. It was too much for the Scrap Iron Kid, who stumbled out into the freezing night and fought with his misery. He tried to pray, but from long inexperience he fancied he made bad work of it.