“And I shan’t feel that we’re out of trouble until your friend Mr. Lonergan comes here and you divide and get rid of that silly old treasure,” declared Frances, and she pouted a little.
“What’s that, Frances?” gasped the old Captain. “All those jewels and stuff? Why, don’t you care anything for them?”
“I care more for my peace of mind,” she said, decidedly. “And see what it’s brought poor Pratt to.”
“Well,” said her father, subsiding. “The boy did git the dirty end of the stick, for a fact. I’m sorry he was hurt—”
“And you are sorry you thought so ill of him, too, Daddy–you know you are,” whispered Frances, one arm stealing over the Captain’s shoulder.
“Well—”
“Now, ‘’fessup!’” she laughed, softly. “He’s a good boy to risk himself for me.”
“I wouldn’t have thought much of him if he hadn’t,” said the old ranchman, stubbornly.
“What could you really expect when you consider that he has lived all his life in a city—”
“And works in a bank,” finished the Captain, with a sly grin. “But I reckon I have got to take off my hat to him. He’s a hero.”