“You would put a premium on recklessness. Every man would be trying to get sick or step in the way of a bullet.”
“Now isn’t that a real pretty speech!” she cried, flushing delicately. “And a woman fifty years old her last birthday, too.”
“Madam,” said Dad, right gallantly, “I beg you won’t tax my credulity by saying you are a day over thirty.”
“Listen to the man!” she laughed happily. “Yes, sir. I’m fifty years old last May. According to the record in my family Bible.”
“Never before in my life,” returned Dad, “have I been tempted to doubt the truth of one word that is written in the Book of Books. But—”
“Wait!” she said, as though reminded of some neglected duty; and again she vanished.
This time she was gone for fully ten minutes; leaving the fugitive to dream strange, sweet, vague dreams in the shadows of the quaint, old-world garret.
At last she came back, bearing this time a tray whereon rested a most delectable little supper.
Dad had eaten nothing since dawn. At her behest he fell to with a will. And as he ate his strength came slowly back to him. Rest and food were steadily repairing whatever damage the temporary loss of blood might have wrought upon his seasoned constitution.
“I took a good look for those guerrillas of yours,” she said, as he finished eating. “But there’s no sign of them yet. This road, in the direction you were going, winds and twists like a sick adder. They might ride on for ten miles before they could be sure you weren’t riding just ahead of them. And they’d have to search all along the way back before they could get here.”