A voice within Darcy’s heart burst into song. For the first time in her life she had been praised to the limit of a fellow being’s measure. For gameness, as she well knew, was the ultimate virtue to the athlete mind. The Big Feller had been game, even in his downfall; it was that, over and above all his victories, which had enshrined him in Andy Dunne’s and thousands of other stout and inexpressive hearts.
Her trainer had paid her his finest compliment.
“Yah’r game,” he repeated. “I dunno exactly what yah’r out after, but I’m backin’ yah to get it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dunne,” said Darcy gratefully.
“Grmph!” retorted that gentleman. “Cut the Mister. Andy, to you.”
“Thank you, Andy,” said the recipient of the accolade.
CHAPTER VII
“Rum-tu m-tu m-tu m-tu m-tu m-tiddle!”
THE voice sounded, fresh and brisk from behind the portals of the Fifty-Sixth Street eyrie. It was followed by a rapid succession of floppish noises which fell strangely upon the ears of Miss Maud Raines and Miss Helen Barrett, panting after their long ascent, outside the door. They had returned from a shopping tour at the unaccustomed hour of three when Darcy usually could rely upon having the place to herself.
“Isn’t Darcy the gay young sprite!” said Helen as the song burst forth again.