— VIII —
IN WHICH THE BAIT IS NIBBLED
THERE was a group around the Flopper on the Portland platform beside the Bar Harbor express; some wore pitying expressions, others smiled a little tolerantly—Pale Face Harry, from the circle, sneered openly.
"Nutty!" he coughed, and touched his forehead. "Nothing doing in the upper story—some one ought to look after him."
The Flopper, a crippled thing on the ground, fixed Pale Face Harry with a pointed forefinger.
"Youse don't look like you had many weeps to spare for anybody but yerself—yer fallin' to pieces," said the Flopper. "I didn't ask you nor any of youse to butt in—I was talkin' to dis lady here"—he motioned toward a young woman in a wheeled, invalid chair, who, between a trained nurse on one side and a gentleman on the other, was regarding him with a startled expression in her eyes.
She turned now and spoke to the gentleman beside her.
"Robert," she said, in a low, anxious tone, "do you think that—that there can be anything in it?"
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