Part 6 (1/2)
When he had gone Tip O'Gorman threw a whimsical glance at Rafe Tuckleton.
”I'd feel better if he'd slammed that door,” said Tip O'Gorman.
CHAPTER THREE
WHAT SALLY JANE THOUGHT
”Careless child,” observed Bill Wingo, coming up on the porch where Sally Jane lay in the hammock. ”You dropped your hat in the draw. I found it this morning. Here it is. Don't move, sweet one. Of course, if you asked me to sit down or didn't ask me I would, and if you felt like rustling some coffee and cake, or lemonade and doughnuts, or even just a piece of pie with a bite of cheese on the side--just a bite, not over half a pound, I don't like cheese much--I wouldn't stop you.”
”Stop calling me 'sweet one,'” Miss Prescott said crossly. ”I'm not your sweet one, or anybody else's sweet one, and I'll get you something to fill your fat stomach, you lazy loafer, when I get good and ready.
Not before.”
”Well, all right,” he murmured resignedly, settling down on the stout pine rail of the porch and fanning himself with his hat. ”But I love you just the same. What's that? Did I hear you curse or something?”
”Something. I only said d.a.m.n because you make me sick. Love, love, love, morning, noon and night! Don't men ever think of anything else?”
”Not when you're around,” he told her.
”Oh, it's the very devil,” admitted Sally Jane, rubbing her red mouth with a reflective forefinger. ”Am I so alluring?”
”Who has been kissing you now?” he asked idly and wondered why her face should flame at the word. Wondered--because everybody knew Sally Jane.
On her part she wondered if he had seen what had pa.s.sed in the draw the day before, then decided instantly that he had not, else his manner toward her would have been decidedly different.
”You haven't answered my question?” he persisted, still idly.
”Does it need one?”
”Well, no, not yet, anyway. When you're engaged to me, I'll know who's kissing you.”
”Don't be disgusting.”
”No disgusting about it. I'll probably hug you, too.”
”What dismal beasts men are,” she said, with a mock s.h.i.+ver, having regained control of her jumpy nerves. ”I suppose you'd enjoy having me sit on your knee.”
”I would indeed,” he told her warmly. ”I think that chair there would hold the two of us if we sat quiet--fairly quiet.”
It was at this juncture that her father, Sam Prescott, came out on the porch.
”Howdy, young Bill,” said Sam. He invariably prefixed the adjective to Bill's name. Why, no one knew. It was doubtful if he knew himself.
”'Lo, Sam,” said young Bill.
”Sam,” said Sally Jane from the hammock, ”s'pose now a man tried to hug you, and kiss you and make you sit on his knee, what would you do?”
”If I was you, you mean?” inquired Sam judicially. Middle-aged though he was, he never ceased to experience a pleasurable thrill when his daughter called him ”Sam.” It reminded him so much of her mother. ”If I was you,” he went on, without waiting for an answer, ”and the feller which tried to make me do all those things was young Bill here, I'd do 'em. I really believe he likes you, Sally Jane.”
”You think so, do you?” sighed Sally Jane, smoothing her frock down over her ankles. ”You too, Samuel? What chance has a poor girl got--without a club?”