"Have we?" he said. "We've got everything there is in Connecticut! Why,
say, we're celebrating. This is our big day. Know what's happened?
Why--"
He stopped short, as if somebody had choked him. They had gone into the
sitting-room while he was speaking. The table was laid for supper. A
chafing-dish stood at one end, and the remainder of the available space
was filled with a collection of foods, from cold chicken to candy,
which did credit to Steve's imagination.
But it was not the sight of these that checked his flow of speech. It
was the look on Mamie's face as he caught sight of it in the lamplight.
The White Hope was sitting at the table in the attitude of one who has
heard the gong and is anxious to begin; while Mamie, bending over him,
raised her head as the two men entered and fixed Steve with a baleful
stare.
"What have you been doing to the poor mite?" she demanded fiercely, "to
get his face scratched this way?"
There was no doubt about the scratch. It was a long, angry red line
running from temple to chin. The White Hope, becoming conscious of the
fact that the attention of the public was upon him, and diagnosing the
cause, volunteered an explanation.
"Bad boy," he said, and looked meaningly again at the candy.
"What does he mean by 'bad boy'?"
"Just what he says, Mamie, honest.
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