w I wouldn't, Mr. Baines. Say you know that...."

"Wa-al," said Scattergood, dryly, "they hain't no tellin' how fur a
woman'll go when she's bein' bamboozled by a scamp--so I kind of insured
ag'in' your takin' it by takin' it myself.... Er--Mr. Curtis, if I was
you, I'd sort of slip out soft by the back door. Bob Allen's a-waitin'
for you on the front porch.... There's a train at nine."

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.

THE END

End of Project Gutenberg's Scattergood Baines, by Clarence Budington Kelland

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