Part 4 (1/2)
”There's only one thing I can do, now,” he said glumly. ”Carry out a bad bargain. I'll see it through.”
”Oh, Mr. Britling!” she murmured _sotto voce_.
”What did you say?”
”Nothing. Traveling libraries evidently don't hit this trail. What is it the trail to, anyway? Your house?”
”To Top Hill Tavern.”
”Gee! That sounds good. A tavern! I hope it's tiptop as well as tophill.
How did you come to build a hotel way off here? Summer boarders? Will there be dances?”
”Top Hill Tavern,” he said coldly, ”is the name of a ranch--not mine. The owners live there.”
”And does she, 'the best woman in the world,' live there?”
”We must start now,” he said, rising abruptly and leading the way to the car.
”I should think,” remarked the girl casually after his fourth ineffectual effort to start the engine, ”that if she owns a ranch, she might buy a better buzz wagon than this.”
He made no reply, but renewed his futile attempts at starting, muttering words softly the while.
”Don't be sore, Kurt. I can't help it because your old ark won't budge. I didn't steal anything off it. Wouldn't it be fierce if you were marooned on the trail with a thief who has a lifelong record!”
He came around the car and stood beside her. His face was flushed. His eyes, of the deep-set sombre kind that grow larger and come to the surface only when strongly moved, burned with the light of anger.
”Did anyone ever try whipping you, I wonder?”
”Sure,” she said cheerfully. ”I was brought up on whippings by a--stepmother. But do you feel that way toward me? You look like a man who might strike a woman under certain provocation, perhaps; but not like one who would hit a little girl like me. If you won't look so cross, I'll tell you why your 'mobile won't move.”
He made no reply, but turned to the brake.
”Say, 'bo,” she continued tantalizingly, ”whilst you are a lookin', just cast your lamps into the gasoline tank. That man who filled it didn't put a widow's mite in.”
Unbelievingly he followed this lead.
”Not a drop, d.a.m.n it!”
”The last straw with you, isn't it? I'm not to blame, though. If you think I stole your gasoline, just search me. How far are we from your tiptop tavern?”
”Twenty miles. I suppose you couldn't walk it,” he said doubtfully.
”Me? In these?” she exclaimed, thrusting forth a foot illy and most inadequately shod. ”But you can walk on.”
”No:” he refused. ”You don't put one over on me in that way.”
”You know I couldn't walk back to town.”
”Some one might come along in a car.”