“Shall I?”
“Shall you what?”
“Come on up? I’m standin’ on the tongue.”
“Not your own. I’d get a little rest if you was.”
“H’m-m!” Halfaman Daisy raised himself to his full height, though not in outraged dignity, and peered in over the seat. “Here I am,” he announced in doubtful triumph.
In one corner of the van was a cot, just large enough for the tired little body that slept on it night after night. About the walls hung the meager wardrobe of the queen of the van. There was a tiny homemade table with writing materials, a few books, and a kerosene lamp on it. Before it, in a camp chair, sat the girl of Mr. Daisy’s heart.
Her black hair was down and in a state of picturesque disorder. Someway, the more tumbled her hair, the more fascinating to mankind was the daughter of the one-armed Jeddo. She wore a straight, formless lightweight dress of brown and white plaid—a homely thing on any other woman.
“Heavens, you’re pretty!” Halfaman Daisy said fervently. “You start the joy bells ringin’ in me heart. What’re you doin’?”
“Studyin’.” The tones were more soothing. Mr. Daisy had said much in those last few words.
“’Rithmetic?”