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“Oh my! yes;” with frank acknowledgment. “You ain’t ever seen me w’en I was real lonesome. ’Tain’t so bad sence you come. But times w’en I git to thinkin’ ’bout home, I’m boun’ to cry seems like I can’t he’p it.” “Why did you ever leave home?” she asked sympathetically.
At last the sound died away under the far stars. By the smoky candle flame Kid Glenn unfolded and once more read the letter that kept them there: I ought to get to Sainte Lesse somewhere around midnight. Don’t say a word to Maryette. Jack. Sticky Smith, reading over his shoulder, slowly rolled another cigarette. "When Jack comes," he drawled, "it’s a-goin’ to he’p a lot.
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