"You suppose so, do you? You suppose so. Don't you know, my innocent William, that there are a sight more criminals outside of jail than there are in?"
"Why, Sally Jane!" said the innocent William, scraping a fie-fie forefinger at her. "Shame on you, shame on you, you wicked girl. I am surprised. Such thoughts in a young maid's mind. No, I ain't either. I always said if your pa sent you away to school you'd lose your faith in human nature. He did; and you did. And now look at you, talking just like a district attorney. And suspicious—I'd tell a man!"
"Oh, darn!" wailed Sally Jane. "I hate a fool!"
"So do I," concurred Bill warmly. "Tell a feller who's the fool you hate and I'll hate him, too. One pair of haters working together might do said fool a lot of good."
"Sometimes, Bill, my fingers simply ache to smack your long and silly ears."
He nodded soberly. "I know. I often have the same feeling about people. But don't let it worry you. It don't mean anything."
"Bill, can't you understand that I like you, and——"
"Easily," he grinned. "Of course you like me. So do lots of other people. It comes natural. And that is another thing you mustn't let worry you, Sally Jane. Just you take that liking for me and tend it real careful. Put it on the window-sill between the pink geraniums and water it morning, noon and night, and by and by that li'l liking will wax strong and great and all that sort of thing, and you won't be able to do without me. You'll have to marry me, I'm afraid, Sally Jane."
"I will, will I? And you're afraid, are you? You big, overgrown, lazy lummox! I wouldn't marry you ever."
"I'm not so sure, but you needn't stamp your foot at me anyway. It ain't being done this season. People slam doors instead. I'm sorry there isn't a door near at hand. It must have been overlooked when Linny's Hill was made."