“He wants to beat you up.”
Cheever laughed outright at this. “You're crazy, darling. What has Dyckman got against me?”
“I don't know, but I know he's hunting you.”
“I haven't laid eyes on him for weeks. We've had no quarrel.”
Zada was frantic. She howled across the wire: “Come home, I beg and implore you. He'll hurt you—he may kill you.”
Again Cheever laughed: “You're having hallucinations, my love. You'll feel better in the morning. Where the deuce did you get such a foolish notion, anyway?”
“From Jim Dyckman,” she stormed. “He was here looking for you. If anybody's going crazy, he's the one. I had a struggle with him. He broke away. I begged him not to harm you, but he said he'd give you a few extra jolts for my sake. Please, please, don't let him find you there.”
Cheever was half convinced and quite puzzled. He knew that Dyckman had never forgiven him for marrying Charity. The feud had smoldered. He could not conceive what should have revived it, unless Charity had been talking. He had not thought of any one's punishing him for neglecting her. But if Dyckman had enlisted in her cause—well, Cheever was afraid of hardly anything in the world except boredom and the appearance of fear. He answered Zada with a gruff:
“Let him find me if he wants to. Or since you know him so well, tell me where he'll be, and I'll go find him.”
He could hear Zada's strangled moan. How many times, since male and female began, have women made wild, vain protests against the battle-habit, the duel-tribunal? Mothers, daughters, wives, mistresses, they have been seldom heard and have been forced to wait remote in anguish till their man has come back or been brought back, victorious or baffled or defeated, maimed, wounded, or dead.