"Now, look here, Arthur Kendall," he
said threateningly. "I won't stand any such talk from any one. If you
're making your roar about Miss Barlow, and I suppose you are, I'll
tell you this: The girl doesn't love you and never did, and why you
should want to do the dog-in-the-manger act is more than I can see."

"No; of course she does n't love me, if a sneaking Judas goes and
betrays me to her."

"I never mentioned your name to her, unless it was to say something
good about you."

"You lie! You told her all about our affair at Hot Springs."

"I did no such thing."

"You did. She told her father about it, and he told me this very
afternoon."

"Did he say I told her?"

"Who else could have told her? do you think I told her?"

"I do n't know, and, what's more, I don't care a damn. I do n't want
any trouble with you, but I have n't got the temper of an angel, and I
'd advise you to take a tumble to yourself until I 'm gone--and that
won't be longer than it takes me to get my stuff into my trunk."

"It can't be any too quick to suit me."

Checkers started for the house, but stopped half-way, and turned for a
parting word, while Arthur stood still, and eyed him malignantly.

"Now, listen, Arthur Kendall," said Checkers earnestly; "and these are
the last words I 'm going to say. I 've been on the square with you
from the day I met you, and if our positions were reversed, I 'd take
you by the hand and wish you all kinds of happiness, but as it is, you
show the yellow streak I always thought you had in you--it's wider than
I thought it was, that's all. But just keep saying this over to
yourself: 'I love that girl and I 'm going to have her, in spite of her
father, or you, or the world.'" And turning on his heel, Checkers went
into the house to collect his few, poor, little belongings.

VII.

That same night Pert, after another stormy interview with her father,
had gone to her room, and, throwing herself on her little white bed, in
a paroxysm of bitter grief, had softly sobbed herself to sleep.

Gradually into her dreams there came the whistled notes of a familiar
little cadence, faint and far away at first, but growing louder and
nearer until she awoke with a start.

It was "a whistle" which Checkers had taught her weeks before, and ran
as follows:

Come, my love, and walk with me.
Yes, my love, I'll walk with thee.
Ta-ra-dum.

[Illustration: music fragment]

At this time, however, C