"I'm a long way from
being discharged, and, even if I should be, Miss Cullen, I know my
business, and it won't be long before I have another place."
"But it's terrible to think of the injury we may have caused you,"
sighed Madge, sadly. "It makes me hate the thought of money."
"That's a very poor thing to hate," I said, "except the lack of it."
"Are you so anxious to get rich?" asked Madge, looking up at me
quickly, as we walked--for we had been pacing up and down the platform
during our chat.
"I haven't been till lately."
"And what made you change?" she questioned.
"Well," I said, fishing round for some reason other than the true one,
"perhaps I want to take a rest."
"You are the worst man for fibs I ever knew," she laughed.
I felt myself getting red, while I exclaimed, "Why, Miss Cullen, I
never set up for a George Washington, but I don't think I'm a bit
worse liar than nine men in--"
"Oh," she cried, interrupting me, "I didn't mean that way. I meant
that when you try to fib you always do it so badly that one sees right
through you. Now, acknowledge that you wouldn't stop work if you
could?"
"Well, no, I wouldn't," I owned up. "The truth is, Miss Cullen, that
I'd like to be rich, because--well, hang it, I don't care if I do say
it--because I'm in love."
Madge laughed at my confusion, and asked, "With money?"
"No," I said. "With just the nicest, sweetest, prettiest girl in the
world."
Madge took a look at me out of the corner of her eye, and remarked,
"It must be breakfast time.
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