“Mangan’s a fine fella,” said her father after another intermission.
“He is. But I don’t love him. Even if I did, pa, you’ve made me ’fess up that he hasn’t asked me to be his wife.”
“Has—now—Falcon the Flunky ast ye?”
“How embarrassing you can be, pa! No! No! No!”
“Ain’t sore, are ye, daughter?”
“Of course not, silly! No railroad man has asked me to marry him. Every vaquero in the country has asked me half a dozen times, I guess.”
“Uh-huh—I imagined so. Now about this Falcon the Flunky ag’in, daughter: he’s a kind of a winner, ain’t he? Kinda mysterious, eh? All that? And good to look upon—smart an’ all. What would ye say if he was to ast ye to marry ’im?”
“Pa, I positively refuse to answer such a question! Why, I’m surprised at you!”
“Ye didn’t say as much when I ast ye what ye’d say if Hunt Mangan was to ast ye.”
“Perhaps you’ve worn out my patience!”