"I hope so," answered Bartlett. "I’m not very particular, but a tramp—" "A gentleman pedestrian," suggested the Watermelon, with a faint flicker of his usual sublime arrogance. Bartlett laughed and held out his hand. "Well, good-by. I’ve enjoyed the week immensely, for all this rotten ending. That scurvy trick of yours—" "Of yours," corrected the Watermelon. "Yes, yes, I suppose so. I hope that Henrietta won’t ever know. Do you think Billy does?" "Billy isn’t as simple as you think," returned the Watermelon. "What did she say?" "’Father suggested the trip and he telegraphed after dinner,’ or something like that." "You didn’t tell her it was my plan?" begged Bartlett. "I have to go on living with her." "No, I didn’t tell her, but she’s next to the fact." "I will speak to her," said Bartlett hastily. "I wouldn’t like Henrietta to find out about it. Billy has wanted a motor boat for some time. I may give her one." They walked slowly toward the door and once more shook hands. "I would gladly have given the thousands I have lost to have you Batchelor, boy," said Bartlett gently. "Aw, thanks," said the Watermelon. "Tell the others I will be around when I have sent another telegram." The Watermelon found Billy sitting on the steps of the only hotel in town. It was a big, square, uncompromising affair, blank and unattractive, and Billy, alone on the top step, looked somehow small and forlorn and child-like. The Watermelon sat down beside her. "Where’s Henrietta?" he asked, ignoring her eyes and the question they asked. "Up-stairs," said Billy, "fixing up." She raised her hands to her own soft hair and bit her lip to get up courage to voice the question her eyes had already asked. "Where’s the general?" asked the Watermelon. Billy nodded backward. "In the office, trying to convert the landlord. The landlord’s a democrat, you know." "Come and walk down the road with me a bit?" asked the Watermelon. He rose and held out his hand to help her up. Billy rose with a trembling laugh that failed miserably in its manifest attempt to be brave. It was late afternoon, sweet and cool as they left the village behind. The deep quiet of the last of the day was over fields and woods and road, the heat and strenuous business of the morning done. Cows were slowly meandering across the pastures to the familiar bars, empty teams rattled by on the way home, the driver humped contentedly over the reins, thinking of the day’s bargains and of the supper waiting for him. The shadows were lengthening, long and graceful across the village green. Neither Billy nor the Watermelon spoke until they had left the village some little way behind and had come to four cross-roads with the usual small dingy school-house, door locked, dirty windows closed for the summer and shabby, faded blinds drawn.