Part 42 (2/2)
”An' Alf'll come to see us whenever he wants to?”
”Whenever he wants to. Don't you believe me? Why question?”--hurriedly.
”Say you love me, now, today, this hour,”--straining her to him. ”Say it to me, Bobby; say that you love me as I love you!”
His eyes burned into hers and he closed his lips to press them on hers, to touch the woman of her into being, to accomplish the end he sought.
”Oh, Mister Hilton, I--”
Her voice had the quality of a sob and he waited for her to go on before he sealed his tricky pact with a kiss, but as she choked a cras.h.i.+ng of the brush shocked him into a realization of the outside world and a resounding voice cried:
”One moment! Just one moment!”
The Reverend Azariah Beal advanced toward them through the willows.
Bobby whirled to face him and Hilton, with an oath, released her.
For a moment, portentous silence. The Reverend halted, plainly confused. Before Hilton's glare and the girl's breathless fury his eyes wavered. He opened his lips to speak and closed them helplessly. Then a queer glimmer crossed his face, half hope, half smile.
He reached into his pocket, brought forth a fountain pen, held it up and said:
”One moment of your time to bring to your attention this article, known from coast to coast, indispensable to any man, woman or child, which we are introducing for the purposes of further advertising at a trifling price, which--”
”Who the devil sent you here?” demanded Hilton, advancing.
The Reverend lowered his hand and blinked through his spectacles.
”I do not recall that I came from that black deity,” he replied mildly.
”My feet are directed from Above,”--gesturing. ”I have been called upon--”
”Now you're called upon to get out. Understand? Get out!”
”Brother, is it possible that you are not interested in this article?
Made of pure India rubber--”
”You heard me! Get out!” cried Hilton.
For a moment the Reverend stood, as though undecided.
”I am sorry,” he said, ”that I can not interest you. If not today, then another time, perhaps? A splendid gift for a lady, my friend, a--”
”n.o.body here wants to listen to you. Be on your way!”
Sorrowfully the Reverend replaced the pen in his pocket, rattling it against the remainder of his stock. As he turned away he drew them all out and stood for some time beside his horse, counting them carefully, muttering to himself. He looked about his feet, retraced his steps to where he had stood in his attempt to make a sale, scanning the ground.
”Can it be,” he asked absently, ”that I have miscounted?”
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