"Don't come any nearer," warned Bill. "I'm too filthy, Jap. But let me stay as I am till it's over."
He sat down on the cot and stared crazily into the corridor. Jap sat down beside him and drew his arm around his shoulder, with the tenderness of a woman.
"Tell me about it, Bill, boy," he counselled gently. "Tim, you may leave us."
Bill sat a long time, staring sullenly at the floor.
"Well, this is a hell of a display for me to bring to Bloomtown," he declared at last. "I should have ended it in Jones's town. If I hadn't been so dumb with rotgut that I didn't know what I was doing, I would be furnishing some excitement for the Bartonites this morning. The finest place in the world to die in—it isn't fit to live in."
Jap shook him briskly.
"Straighten up, Bill, and tell me what kind of a mess you have been in."
Bill laughed wildly. After a moment he dragged a letter from his pocket. Jap read:
"When you read this, I will be the wife of Wilfred Jones, the Editor of the Barton Standard. Maybe you will be pleased? I prefer to marry a real editor, not the half of Jap Herron."
The letter was signed, "Rosalie," but the affectation carried none of the elements of a disguise. To Jap it was the crowning insult. Crushing the silly note in his hand, he threw it from him. Standing up, he drew Bill to his feet.