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Just as the boys and girls were settling down in their seats and Jim Scroggie was glancing anxiously doorward Billy strode in. He was resplendent in his Sunday best and wore a wild thorn blossom in his button hole. He glanced quickly about the room and caught the glint and sunlight for which he hungered—a smile from the lips of Lou Scroggie. Then he seized Jack LaRose by the scruff of the neck, jerked him from the seat near the door and motioned Jim Scroggie over. "We'll set here," he whispered. "It's close to the outside in case we have to make a quick get-away." Billy, who had squared away at his breakfast, spoke with his mouth full. "We're goin' to have 'em fer dinner," he informed his hostess. "Say," he remarked, hesitatingly, "you got a great laugh, Billy.".
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"Yep, that's so. But how?" "So, I don't shoot partridge neither," said Billy. "I don't blame anybody else fer shootin' 'em, remember, but somehow, I'd rather leave 'em alive." "Much better—indeed, quite gone, I am greatly obliged to you, ma'am," he answered. "I find nursing of little account. Gruel and foot-baths and a tallow candle for the nose do not help me so much as fresh air. Fresh air seems to dry the cold up." "American, your honour.".
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