“What’s doin’?” cried a voice.
“Say, run f’r a doctor, somebody—quick—Soapy’s hurt bad, I reckon—”
“Hurt?” said Soapy, in soft, lazy tones. “‘S right! But—say—fellers, there’s a son of a dog in there—waitin’ f’r a spade—t’ bury him!” Then Soapy laughed, choked, and groping before him blindly, staggered forward, and pitching sideways, fell with his head beneath a table and died there.
CHAPTER XLV
OF THE OLD UN AND FATE
Spike leaned back among his cushions and, glancing away across close-cropped lawns and shady walks, sighed luxuriously.
“Say, Ann,” he remarked. “Gee whiz, Trapesy, there sure ain’t no flies on this place of old Geoff’s!”
“Flies,” said Mrs. Trapes, glancing up from her household accounts, “you go into the kitchen an’ look around.”
“I mean it’s aces up.”
“Up where?” queried Mrs. Trapes.
“Well, it’s a regular Jim-dandy cracker-jack—some swell clump, eh?”
“Arthur, that low, tough talk don’t go with me,” said Mrs. Trapes, and resumed her intricate calculations again.
“Say, when’ll Geoff an’ Hermy be back?”
“Well, considerin’ she’s gone to N’ York t’ buy more clo’es as she don’t need, an’ considerin’ Mr. Ravenslee’s gone with her, I don’t know.”
“An’ what you do know don’t cut no ice. Anyway, I’m gettin’ lonesome.”
“What, ain’t I here?” demanded Mrs. Trapes sharply.
“Sure. I can’t lose you!”
“Oh! Now I’ll tell you what it is, my good b’y—”
“Cheese it, Trapes, you make me tired, that’s what.”
“If you sass me, I’ll box your young ears—an’ that’s what!”
“I don’t think!” added Spike. “Nobody ain’t goin’ t’ box me. I’m a sure enough invalid, and don’t you forget it.”
“My land!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, “a bit of a hole in his arm, that’s all.”
“Well, I wish you got it, ‘stead o’ me—it smarts like sixty!”
“Shows it’s healin’. Doctor said as it’ll be well in a week.”
“Doctor!” sniffed Spike, “he don’t know what I suffer. I may be dyin’ for all he knows.”
“You are!” sighed Mrs. Trapes, with a gloomy nod.
“Eh—what?” exclaimed Spike, sitting up.
“So am I—we all are—by the minute. Every night we’re a day’s march nearer home! So now jest set right there an’ go on dyin’, my b’y!”
“Say, now, cut it out,” said Spike, wriggling. “That ain’t no kind o’ way t’ cheer an invalid.”
“It’s th’ truth.”
“Well, it don’t cheer me more, so let’s have a lie for a change.”
Mrs. Trapes snorted and fell to adding and subtracting busily.
“Say, Ann,” said he after awhile, “if you got any more o’ that punkin pie I could do some right now. I’m hungry.”
“It ain’t eatin’ time yet.”
“But—Gee! ain’t I a invalid?”
“Sure! Consequently you must be fed slow an’ cautious.”
“Oh, fudge! What’s th’ good of a guy bein’ a invalid if a guy can’t feed when he wants to?”
“What’s a hundred an’ ninety-one from twenty-three?” enquired Mrs. Trapes.
“Skidoo!” murmured Spike sulkily. But after Mrs. Trapes had subtracted and added busily he spoke again.
“You ain’t such a bad old gink—sometimes,” he conceded.
“Gink?” said Mrs. Trapes, glaring.
“I mean you can be a real daisy when you want to.”
“Can I?”
“Sure! Sometimes you can be so kind an’ nice I like you a whole lot!”
“Is that so?”
“You bet it is—honest Injun.”
