“She never give me a chance,” declared Ike, gruffly.
“Chance!” gasped Ruth, wanting to laugh, but being too kind-hearted to do so. “What sort of a chance do you expect?”
“I never git to talk with her ten minutes at a time,” grumbled Ike.
“But why don’t you make a chance?”
“Great Peter!” cried the foreman again. “I can’t throw an’ hawg-tie her, can I? I never can git down to facts with her—she won’t let me.”
“If I were a great, big man,” said Ruth, her eyes dancing, “I surely wouldn’t let a little wisp of a girl like Miss Dickson get away from me—if I wanted her.”
“How am I goin’ to he’p it?” cried Ike, in despair. “She’s jest as sassy as a cat-bird. Ye can’t be serious with her. She plumb slips out o’ my fingers ev’ry time I try to hold her.”
“You are going to the dance at the schoolhouse, aren’t you?” asked Ruth.
“I reckon.”
“Can’t you get her to dance with you? And when you’re dancing can’t you ask her? Come right out plump with it.”