"Does he want me to?" she asked wistfully. "Do you think I can help him?"
The man's hands clenched tightly. For a moment he struggled.
"You can," he said at last. "He wants you; he wants your help. He loves you so, he's nearly crazy."
The girl gazed up at him with eyes whose question the man tried but failed to read. It was some seconds before her lips opened to speak again.
But her words never came. At that moment Addlestone Checks hurried up to them. He drew Dave sharply on one side. His manner was mysterious and important, and his face wore a look of outraged piety.
"Something's got to be done," he said in a stage whisper. "It's the most outrageous thing I've seen in years. Right here—right here in the house where the parson preaches the Word! It sure is enough to set it shakin' to its foundation. Drunk! That's what he is—roarin', flamin', fightin' drunk! You must do something. It's up to you."
"What do you mean? Who is drunk?" cried Dave, annoyed at the man's Pharisaical air.
Before he could get a reply there was a commotion at the far end of the bazaar. Voices were raised furiously, and everybody had flocked in that direction. Once Dave thought he heard Chepstow's voice raised in protest. Betty ran to his side directly the tumult began.
"Oh, Dave, what's the matter down there? I thought I heard Jim's voice?"
"So you did, Miss Betty," cried Checks, with sanctimonious spleen. "So you did—the drunken——"