"He has long been
known as the champion _dear_-killer."
This wretched attempt at a pun was loftily ignored by the subject of
it.
"Alas, 'tis too true!" mourned the other. "Come, Ned, try to be
entertaining for once; tell us about the pretty Indian girl you were
mooning with."
"What did you say?" demanded Edward, freezingly.
"You heard perfectly well what I said."
"What do you mean by it?"
"Oh, I _mean_ the pretty squaw you were _spooning_ with, if that suits
you better."
"Gently, Tom," interposed Boulton parenthetically, "don't mention
_all_ the meanness you mean."
"I would like to inquire what right you have to mention any of it,"
exclaimed Edward wrathfully.
"Oh, none--none, whatever. Only it was town talk in Barrie last Fall
that you had become infatuated with the sweet little squaw to such an
extent that your charming sister, with commendable prudence and
foresight, had you put out of harm's way as speedily as possible.
There's no accounting for such reports."
"I don't understand it at all," said Edward, with mingled anger and
humiliation. "How can people be so silly?"
"Exactly what your slanderers inquired of each other.
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