“In that case,” Peter unexpectedly remarked, “I’d like to climb into that front seat with you.”
“Why?” I asked, not greatly interested.
“Because I want to talk to you,” was Peter’s answer.
“But I think I’d rather not talk,” I told him.
“Why?” it was his turn to inquire.
“Isn’t it a rum enough situation as it is?” I demanded. For Peter, naturally, had not used his eyes for nothing that night.
But Peter didn’t wait for my permission to climb into the front seat. He plumped himself down beside me and sat there with my first-born in his arms and one-half of the mangy old buffalo-robe pulled up over his knees.
“I think I’m beginning to see light,” he said, after a rather long silence, as we went spanking along the prairie-trail with the cold air fanning our faces.
“I wish I did,” I acknowledged.
“You’re not very happy, are you?” he ventured, in a voice with just the slightest trace of vibrato in it.