"A
glass of water, please."
"Oh!--Certainly."
Sharlee poured a glass from the battered silver pitcher on the
side-table--the one that the Yankees threw out of the window in May,
1862--and duly placed it. Mr. Queed was oblivious to the little
courtesy. By this time he had propped his book open against the plate of
rolls and was reading it between cuts on the steak. Beside the plate he
had laid his watch, an open-faced nickel one about the size of a
desk-clock.
"Do you think that is everything?"
"I believe that is all."
"Do you remember me?" then asked Sharlee.
He glanced at her briefly through his spectacles, his eyes soon
returning to his supper.
"I think not."
The girl smiled suddenly, all by herself. "It was my dog that--upset you
on Main Street this afternoon. You may remember ...? I thought you
seemed to--to limp a little when you came in just now. I'm awfully
sorry for the--mishap--"
"It is of no consequence," he said, with some signs of unrest. "I walk
seldom. Your--pleasure-dog was uninjured, I trust?"
"Thank you. He was never better."
That the appearance of the pleasure-dog's owner as a familiar of his
boarding-house piqued his curiosity not the slightest was only too
evident.
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