"No, he didn't," maintained Wrinkles; "but he let me know it was—well, rather a—rather a—sacred subject." Wrinkles blushed when the others snickered.
In the afternoon, as Hawker was going slowly down the stairs, he was almost impaled upon the feather of a hat which, upon the head of a lithe and rather slight girl, charged up at him through the gloom.
"Hello, Splutter!" he cried. "You are in a hurry."
"That you, Billie?" said the girl, peering, for the hallways of this old building remained always in a dungeonlike darkness.
"Yes, it is. Where are you going at such a headlong gait?"
"Up to see the boys. I've got a bottle of wine and some—some pickles, you know. I'm going to make them let me dine with them to-night. Coming back, Billie?"
"Why, no, I don't expect to."
He moved then accidentally in front of the light that sifted through the dull, gray panes of a little window.
"Oh, cracky!" cried the girl; "how fine you are, Billie! Going to a coronation?"
"No," said Hawker, looking seriously over his collar and down at his clothes. "Fact is—er—well, I've got to make a call."