"We don’t want the others to know," went on Billy guilefully. "Wait until we get to the town before you say anything, won’t you, father?" "But, Billy, a week." "Now, father," advised Billy, "just forget it. And I will forget about you and Henrietta." "About me and Henrietta?" snapped Bartlett. "Yes," said Billy, "and last night on the porch when you thought we had all gone in." "That will do, Billy. We did nothing at all but say good night. I have no objection to Batchelor as a son-in-law from what I know of him; but only a week—" "It was only an hour," said Billy. "I loved him that very first day. And please, father, you won’t say anything, will you, even to him, about it? Just be nice to him, you know. And then I won’t say anything." "Certainly I won’t say a thing if you don’t want me to, Billy—but there is nothing whatever that you could say." "No," said Billy, "only what I heard." The carriage drove up at that moment, which was well. *CHAPTER XXIII* *BACK TO THE ROAD* Bartlett took the telegram the clerk handed him in an elation it was hard to conceal from Batchelor, who leaned against the counter of the store and telegraph office combined, and watched him moodily. "Realizes that it was a piece of foolishness, his taking that trip," thought Bartlett with the sympathy of the victor for the beaten. "Has probably forgotten Billy for the time. Poor Billy!" He tore open the telegram quickly and read it eagerly and then slowly and still again more slowly, while his florid face grew first red and then white. "Come back, for God’s sake. B. here all the time. Where have you been?" signed by his broker’s name. After the third reading, Bartlett raised his eyes and glanced dully at the Watermelon, leaning against the counter, among the gay rolls of calico and boxes of rubber overshoes and stockings, watching him with thoughtful wary eyes, and Bartlett wondered if he were going mad. It was late in the afternoon. The general and the girls, having telegraphed for money, had gone to the hotel to wait for the answers, while Bartlett and the Watermelon had remained in the store, Bartlett eager to receive the answer to the joyful congratulations he had sent his broker on the success of his plan, and the Watermelon because he scorned to run away like a whipped cur, preferring Bartlett to know who he was. "To ask me for Billy," Bartlett had at first decided, but changed his mind as the youth’s gloom became apparently impenetrable. Bartlett’s jaw was set squarely, sternly, his eyes gleamed angrily and a small pulse beat in his cheek. He handed the Watermelon the telegram and watched him as he read it. "Who are you?" he demanded hoarsely, when the Watermelon had finished reading the message and returned it. "Jeroboam Martin," said the Watermelon slowly, a grim amusement in his half-shut eyes. "Jero—what?" "Jeroboam Martin."