“Good book-talk,” commented the Fighter, “but it has a kind of a square sound to it, too. Well, good luck to you! You can’t say I haven’t given you all the chances there was.”
“I appreciate it, sir,” answered the boy. “And soon or late I mean to win. I—I asked her once more since we came up here—It was about a month ago. But it seemed to make her unhappy. And I don’t want to spoil her summer. So I am waiting. I’ll wait for years, if I have to. Some day she may learn to care.”
“These fellers around here,—these youngsters that’s spendin’ the summer at the hotel,” queried Caleb. “Isn’t int’rested in any of them, is she?”
“I think not, sir. She’s nice to all of them, just as she is to me. And there isn’t another girl half so popular. But I don’t think she cares. I’m sure she doesn’t.”
Conover wondered why Hawarden’s report gave him an indefinable sense of relief. He thought the matter over for a moment; then shook his head.
“‘We’re keepin’ ’em waitin’,’” he said, slapping his hair with the heavy military brushes on his table. “Come along—”
As he turned to leave, the canvas curtains slowly parted and a gold-red collie stepped into the tent. He glanced about him with the air of one quite at home, and proceeded, with majestic friendliness, to walk across to where Conover stood.
“What’s the measly dog doin’ in here?” demanded Caleb, somewhat taken aback at the visit.
“Why, it’s Rex,” answered Jack, as though that statement explained everything. “He goes wherever he wants to. Desirée thinks the world of him.”
Caleb, mollified, moved nearer to the dog and proceeded to pat the downy fur of his head.