"Don't you be scared, miss," said Cluff, turning to the girl.
"It's all over."
"I'm not frightened," she said, with a catch in her voice.
"Of course you ain't," he agreed reassuringly. "You just sit
quiet--"
"But I--I--I'm MAD, clean through."
"You gotta right. You gotta perfect right. Now, if this was New
York, I'd spread that gold-laced guy's face--"
"I'm not angry at him. Not particularly, I mean."
"No?" queried her friend in need. "What got your goat, then?"
Miss Brewster shot a quick and scornful glance over her shoulder.
"Oh, HIM" interpreted the athlete. "Well, he made his get-away
like a man with some reason for being elsewhere."
"Reason enough. He was afraid."
"Maybe. Being afraid's a queer thing," remarked her escort
academically. "Now, me, I'm afraid of a fuzzy caterpillar. But I
ain't exactly timid about other things."
"You certainly aren't. And I don't know how to thank you."
"Aw, that's awright, miss. What else could I do? Our departed
friend, Professor Goggle-Eye, when he made his jump, landed right
in my shirt front. 'Take my place,' he says; 'I've got an
engagement.
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