“So I see!” quoth Maggie drily. “But go on! As you were sayin’——?”
Sam wriggled. “This—this is bully pie, Maggie,” said he, in an effort to change the topic.
Her severity of expression deepened. “Mebbe it is, Sam. But you can’t have another piece ’less you ’fess up.”
“But I—I can’t confess.”
“Bosh!” said Maggie tartly.
Sam, in his turn, regarded her gravely. He had no intention of confiding in his old friend, but plainly it was a point of interest to learn if he struck people as one who was burdened with a terrible secret.
“Well, I got awfully tired, for one thing,” said he. “And it was chilly and—er—er—and lonesome. And so I show it, do I?”
“You show something fast enough—I ain’t sure what.”
“Oh!” said Sam, and pushed back his chair. He got upon his feet, and crossed to the door. His hand on the knob, he looked at Maggie, whose brow was furrowed.
“Say, it was mighty clever of you to save my dinner. Thank you a lot!” he cried. Then he opened the door, and went out hurriedly.