"But it's none of my business, Splutter. I can't tell you something which is Billie Hawker's private affair. If I did I would be a chump." "But I'll never say you told me. Go on." "No." "Pl-e-a-se tell me." "No." CHAPTER XXII. When Florinda had gone, Grief said, "Well, what was it?" Wrinkles looked curiously from his drawing-board. Pennoyer lit his pipe and held it at the side of his mouth in the manner of a deliberate man. At last he said, "It was two violets." "You don't say!" ejaculated Wrinkles. "Well, I'm hanged!" cried Grief. "Holding them in his hand and moping over them, eh?" "Yes," responded Pennoyer. "Rather that way." "Well, I'm hanged!" said both Grief and Wrinkles. They grinned in a pleased, urchin-like manner. "Say, who do you suppose she is? Somebody he met this summer, no doubt. Would you ever think old Billie would get into that sort of a thing? Well, I'll be gol-durned!" Ultimately Wrinkles said, "Well, it's his own business." This was spoken in a tone of duty. "Of course it's his own business," retorted Grief. "But who would ever think----" Again they grinned. When Hawker entered the den some minutes later he might have noticed something unusual in the general demeanour. "Say, Grief, will you loan me your---- What's up?" he asked. For answer they grinned at each other, and then grinned at him. "You look like a lot of Chessy cats," he told them. They grinned on. Apparently feeling unable to deal with these phenomena, he went at last to the door. "Well, this is a fine exhibition," he said, standing with his hand on the knob and regarding them. "Won election bets? Some good old auntie just died? Found something new to pawn? No? Well, I can't stand this. You resemble those fish they discover at deep sea. Good-bye!" As he opened the door they cried out: "Hold on, Billie! Billie, look here! Say, who is she?" "What?" "Who is she?" "Who is who?" They laughed and nodded. "Why, you know. She. Don't you understand? She." "You talk like a lot of crazy men," said Hawker. "I don't know what you mean." "Oh, you don't, eh? You don't? Oh, no! How about those violets you were moping over this morning? Eh, old man! Oh, no, you don't know what we mean! Oh, no! How about those violets, eh? How about 'em?" Hawker, with flushed and wrathful face, looked at Pennoyer. "Penny----" But Grief and Wrinkles roared an interruption. "Oh, ho, Mr. Hawker! so it's true, is it? It's true. You are a nice bird, you are. Well, you old rascal! Durn your picture!" Hawker, menacing them once with his eyes, went away. They sat cackling. At noon, when he met Wrinkles in the corridor, he said: "Hey, Wrinkles, come here for a minute, will you? Say, old man, I--I----" "What?" said Wrinkles. "Well, you know, I--I--of course, every man is likely to make an accursed idiot of himself once in a while, and I----" "And you what?" asked Wrinkles.