Von Götz-Wrede choked down an angry word. Then he was again his old, suave self.
"Well, never mind. I shall ask you just once more. . ."
"Look here! I told you I. . ."
"Just once more. . . before I leave Spokane. You see, I shall leave here to-morrow night."
"Oh, you're off?"
"Yes, my leave is over. Back to the regiment, and the drill."
Tom smiled. He thought of Bertha. Here was one rival at least eliminated for good. So he essayed a mild, white lie. "I'm mighty sorry to see you go."
"And I am sorry to leave. I've had a ripping time. Thanks for your hospitality, and if ever you come to Germany. . ."
"Me—to Germany?" Tom Graves laughed out loud at the idea. "Say—I don't. . ."
"You never know what may happen. Anyway, if ever you happen to be in Berlin, look me up." He was again the soul of sincerity. "We like men like you over there. Strong men, big, powerful, daring, upstanding; and there’s one or two things you could teach us. . ."
"Nothing except riding a little pony," smiled Tom.
"Exactly. And that's a lot. You see, I am in the cavalry, call myself a good horseman, have ridden for my regiment at Olympia, in London. But compared to you. . . My word!"
And the young Westerner, touched in his weak spot, decided that the man was not so bad after all and thought to himself that perhaps he would let him have the Yankee Doodle Glory. There was really no sense in not selling.
