Part 59 (1/2)

”Supervisors same; but with a gold pompon on top the helmet,” he observed. ”What _is_ the dang thing, anyway, Amy?” he asked.

”Dark green whipcord, green b.u.t.tons, gray hat, military cut.”

”Not bad,” said Thorne.

”About one fifty-mile ride and one fire would make that outfit look like a bunch of mildewed alfalfa. Blue jeans is about my sort of uniform,”

observed John.

”I don't believe we'd be supposed to wear it on range,” suggested Thorne. ”Only in town and official business.” He turned to the girl again: ”May have to go over Baldy to-morrow,” said he, ”so we'll run off those letters.”

She arose and saluted, military fas.h.i.+on. The two disappeared in the tiny box-office, whence presently came the sound of Thorne's voice in dictation.

California John knocked the ashes from his pipe.

”Get your ap.r.o.n on, sonny,” said he.

He tested the water on the stove and slammed out a commodious dish-pan.

”Gla.s.ses first; then silver; and if you break anything, I'll bash in your fool head. There's going to be some style to this dishwas.h.i.+ng. I used to slide 'em all in together and let her go. But that ain't the way here. She knows four aces and the jolly joker better than that. Gla.s.ses first.”

They washed and wiped the dishes, and laid them carefully away.

”She's a little wonder,” said California John, nodding at the office, ”and there ain't none of the boys but helps all they can.”

Thorne called the old man by name, and he disappeared into the office. A moment later the girl emerged, smoothing back her hair with both hands.

She stepped immediately to the little kitchen.

”Thank you,” said she. ”That helps.”

”It was old John,” disclaimed Bob. ”I'm ashamed to say I should never have thought of it.”

The girl nodded carelessly.

”Where did you learn stenography?” asked Bob.

”Oh, I got that out of a ten-cent magazine too.” She sat on a bench, looked up at the sky through the trees, and drew a deep breath.

”You're tired,” said Bob.

”Not a bit,” she denied. ”But I don't often get a chance to just look up.”

”You seem to do the gardening, the cooking, the housework, the clerical work--you don't do the laundry, too, do you?” demanded Bob ironically.

”You noticed those miserable khakis!” cried Amy with a gesture of dismay. ”Ashley,” she called, ”change those khakis before you go out,”

”Yes, mama,” came back a mock childish voice.

”What's your salary?” demanded Bob bluntly, nodding toward the office.

”What?” she asked, as though puzzled.