“That’s a bully story,” said Jack.
“Who was the silent man?”
“I think you’ve seen him a few times,
at that.”
She concealed another smile, and said in the most
businesslike manner: “Chow-time, Pierre,”
and set out the pans on the table. “By the
way,” he said easily, “I’ve got a
little present for you, Jack.”
And he took out a gold pin flaming with three great
rubies.
She merely stared, like a child which may either burst
into tears or laughter, no one can prophesy which.
He explained, rather worried: “You see,
you are a girl, Jack, and I remembered that
you were pleased about those clothes that you wore
to the dance in the Crittenden schoolhouse, and so
when I saw that pin I—well—”
“Oh, Pierre!” said a stifled voice.
“Oh, Pierre!”
“Jack, you aren’t angry, are you?
See, when you put it at the throat it doesn’t
look half bad!”
And to try it, he pinned it on her shirt. She
caught both his hands, kissed them again and again,
and then buried her face against them as she sobbed.
If the heavens had opened and a cloudburst crashed
on the roof of the house, he would have been less
astounded.
“What is it?” he cried. “Damn
it all—Jack—you see—I
meant—”
But she tore herself away and flung herself face down
on the bunk, sobbing more bitterly than ever.
He followed, awestricken—terrified.
He touched her shoulder, but she shrank away and seemed
more distressed than ever. It was not the crying
of a weak woman: these were heartrending sounds,
like the sobbing of a man who has never before known
tears.
“Jack—perhaps I’ve done something
wrong—”
He stammered again: “I didn’t dream
I was hurting you—”
Then light broke upon him.
He said: “It’s because you don’t
want to be treated like a silly girl; eh, Jack?”
But to complete his astonishment she moaned:
“N-n-no! It’s b-b-because you—you
n-n-never do t-treat me like a g-g-girl, P-P-Pierre!”
He groaned heartily: “Well, I’ll
be damned!”
And because he was thoughtful he strode away, staring
at the floor. It was then that he saw it, small
and crumpled on the floor. He picked it up—a
glove of the softest leather. He carried it back
to Jacqueline.
“What’s this?”
“Wh-wh-what?”
“This glove I found on the floor?”
The sobs decreased at once—broke out more
violently—and then she sprang up from the
bunk.
“Pierre, I’ve acted a regular chump.
Are you out with me?”
“Not a bit, old-timer. But about this glove?”
“Oh, that’s one of mine.”
She took it and slipped it into the bosom of her shirt—the
calm blue eye of Pierre noted.
He said: “We’ll eat and forget the
rest of this, if you want, Jack.”
