Part 8 (1/2)
”Not much,” admitted Peter. ”In addition to looking after the preserve, I'm to watch after the men--and obey orders, I suppose.”
”H-m. Preserve! Sorry, Mr. what's your name----”
”Peter Nichols----” put in Peter promptly.
”Well, Mr. Peter Nichols, all I have to say is that you're apt to have a hard time.”
”Yes, I'm against it!” translated Peter confidently.
The girl stopped in the middle of the road, put her hands on her hips and laughed up at the purpling sky. Her laugh was much like her singing--if angels in Paradise laugh (and why shouldn't they?). Then while he wondered what was so amusing she looked at him again.
”_Up_ against it, you mean. You're English, aren't you?”
”Er--yes--I am.”
”I thought so. There was one of you in the gla.s.s factory. He always m.u.f.fed the easy ones.”
”Oh, you work in a gla.s.s factory?”
”Winters. Manufacturin' whiskey and beer bottles. Now we're goin' dry, they'll be makin' pop and nursin' bottles, I guess.”
”Do you help in the factory?”
”Yes, and in the office. I can shorthand and type a little.”
”You must be glad when a summer comes.”
”I am. In winter I can't turn around without breakin' something. They dock you for that----”
”And that's why you sing when you can't break anythin'?”
”I suppose so. I like the open. It isn't right to be cooped up.”
They were getting along beautifully and Peter was even beginning to forget the weight of his heavy bag. She was a quaint creature and quite as unconscious of him as though he hadn't existed. He was just somebody to talk to. Peter ventured.
”Er--would you mind telling me your name?”
She looked at him and laughed friendly.
”You must have swallowed a catechism, Mr. Nichols. But everybody in Black Rock knows everybody else--more'n they want to, I guess. There's no reason I shouldn't tell you. I don't mind your knowin'. My name is Beth Cameron.”
”Beth----?”
”Yes, Bess--the minister had a lisp.”
Peter didn't lack a sense of humor.
”Funny, isn't it?” she queried with a smile as he laughed, ”bein' tied up for life to a name like that just because the parson couldn't talk straight.”
”Beth,” he repeated, ”but I like it. It's like you. I hope you'll let me come to see you when I get settled.”