"I'm getting on, to my sorrow," said Lane.
"Ahuh! You mean you're getting wise to your kid sister?"
"Yes, I'm sorry to say. What do you know, Pepper?"
"Now, son, wait. I'm coming to that, maybe. But I want to know some things first. Is it true—what I hear about your health, bad shape, you know—all cut up in the war? Worse than young Maynard?"
Pepper's hand was close on Lane's. He had forgotten his cigar. His eyes were earnest.
"True?" laughed Lane, grimly. "Yes, it's true.... I won't last long, Pepper, according to Doctor Bronson. That's why I want to make hay while the sun shines."
"Ahuh!" Pepper cleared his throat. "Forgive this, boy.... Is it also true you were engaged to marry that Helen Wrapp—and she threw you down, while you were over there?"
"Yes, that's perfectly true," replied Lane, soberly.
"God, I guess maybe the soldier wasn't up against it!" ejaculated Pepper, with a gesture of mingled awe and wonder and scorn.
"What was the soldier up against, Pepper?" queried Lane. "Frankly, I don't know."