“I don't THINK you will,” began Chip, rebelliously, blushing over his achievement like a girl over her graduation essay. “I don't want to be—”
“Well, we needn't tell them you did it,” suggested she.
“Oh, if you're willing to shoulder the blame,” compromised Chip, much relieved. He hated to be fussed over.
The Little Doctor regarded him attentively a moment, smiled queerly to herself and stood back to get a better view of the painting.
“I'll shoulder the blame—and maybe claim the glory. It was mine in the first place, you know.” She watched him from under her lashes.
“Yes, it's yours, all right,” said Chip, readily, but something went out of his face and lodged rather painfully in the deepest corner of his heart. He ignored it proudly and smiled back at her.
“Do such things really happen, out here?” she asked, hurriedly.
“I'd tell a man!” said Chip, his eyes returning to the picture. “I was riding through that country last winter, and I came upon that very cow, just as you see her there, in that same basin. That's how I came to paint it into your foreground; I got to thinking about it, and I couldn't help trying to put it on canvas. Only, I opened up on the wolves with my six-shooter, and I got two; that big fellow ready to howl, there, and that one next the cut-bank. The rest broke out down the coulee and made for the breaks, where I couldn't follow. They—”
“Say? Old Dunk's comin',” announced Johnny, hurrying in. “Why don't yuh let 'im see the pitcher an' think all the time the Little Doctor done it? Gee, it'd be great t' hear 'im go on an' praise it up, like he always does, an' not know the diffrunce.”
“Johnny, you're a genius,” cried she, effusively. “Don't tell a soul that Chip had a brush in his hand yesterday, will you? He—he'd rather not have anyone know he did anything to the painting, you see.”