I scanned his face. His jaw was set, his lips were a thin line, his eyes were gleaming savagely and a mane of fair hair was falling in a clump over his brow. He looked dishevelled and was evidently labouring under badly suppressed excitement.
"Where's Rita?" he growled.
I put my buckets aside and took my pipe from between my teeth.
"Half-way home by this time, I hope," I said.
"She is,—eh!" he cut in sarcastically. "Guess so! Look here, Bremner,—what'n the hell's your game with Rita, anyway?"
I went straight up to him.
I did not want to quarrel. Not that I was afraid of him, even knowing, as I did, that I would be likely to get much the worse of any possible encounter;—but, for Rita's sake, I preferred peace.
"My good fellow," I said, "why in heaven's name can't you talk sense? I have no game, as you call it, with Rita.
"If you would only play straight with her, you might get her yourself. But I'll tell you this,—skulking around other people's property, after the skirts of a woman, never yet brought a man anything but rebuffs."
"Aw!—cut out your damned yapping, Bremner," he yelled furiously. "Who the hell wants any of your jaw? Play straight the devil! You're some yellow cuss to talk to anybody about playin' straight."