“We-ell—perhaps. I don’t know, though. When you know the camps better you’ll realize that democracy is pretty prevalent in big construction work. I don’t exactly think that snobbish. The stiffs don’t seem to resent it, anyway. And that’s the test, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so. Are you a stiff?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You don’t talk out of one corner of your mouth and say, ‘De bot’ o’ youse togedder.’ Oh, I think that’s so funny! They’re regular clowns.”
The Falcon cleared his throat. “How old are you?” he asked bluntly.
“Nineteen,” she readily told him, sifting sand over her chaps.
“Mum! You’re deceptive. It’s the way you wear your hair, I suppose.”
“I fall down in the sand so much,” she said, “it’s easier to keep it out of my hair this way.”
“I didn’t ask out of mere curiosity,” he told her, chuckling at her confession. “I—well, I hardly know how to say it, Miss Canby. But if you were my sister, for instance, I’d warn you not to be too familiar with the stiffs. Now please don’t be offended. You see, I realize that you know nothing about the tramps or near tramps that make up a construction camp. They’re all right in their way—I’m not condemning stiffs in general—but some might misinterpret your democratic manner. You’ve had lots to do with cow-punchers, I suppose, and that might prove misleading. There’s hardly the chivalry among stiffs that you have found in the cow camps, I imagine.”
“But you’re a stiff!”