"Maybe not," admitted Van. Then he added in the same breath: "No, I shouldn't have gone if you had been here, Bobbie. Somehow you're my good angel. I wrote Father so the other day."
"Stuff!"
"It's true. You are such a brick! I thought you'd blow my head off when you'd heard what I'd done."
"Well, I am mad enough to do it," was the tart reply. "For you to go and do a thing like that just for a ball game! It wasn't worth it. Think of your being pitched out of Colversham for a measly game of baseball. And you didn't get there, either!"
Van kicked the pillows impatiently.
"Don't light into me, Bobbie," he moaned. "Don't I feel bad enough as it is?"
"I don't know whether you do or not; you ought to."
"I do, Bob. I'm dead sorry."
"If you'd stay sorry it might do some good," returned Bob. A sudden thought seemed to strike him. He did not speak for a few moments; then he said half aloud: "Who knows—it might help."
"What might help?"