Scattergood put a clumsy arm about Sarah, who, the moment her wrathful energy ebbed away, sobbed and sobbed and sobbed with shame and fear.
“Hey, out there,” shouted Scattergood, “git a move on you!”
Bob Allen needed no urging. His arm was substituted for Scattergood’s, his breast for Scattergood’s—and Sarah made no complaint. “I wouldn’t.... I wouldn’t.... You thought I did,” she murmured.
“I thought that,” said Bob, brokenly. “How can you ever forgive me?... I—But I love you, Sarah. Won’t that make up for it?”
“You—believed it,” she repeated, and Scattergood grinned.
“Dummed if she hain’t managed to put him in the wrong.... You can’t beat wimmin.... She’s put him in the wrong.”
Scattergood peered at them a moment, saw what filled him with perfect satisfaction, and discreetly withdrew. He went out and sat on the porch and beamed up at the stars.... He sat there a long, long time, and nobody called him in. He got up, pressed his nose against the window, and rapped on the glass.
“Everybody forgiv’ and fixed up,” he called, “so’s I kin git to bed with an easy mind?”
There was no answer. He had not been heard—but what he saw was answer sufficient for any man.