“Just as soon as I can get my trunks packed, and Polycarp—or somebody—comes to help me load them into the spring wagon. I promised Arline Hawley I would be in town to-night. I don't know, though—I don't seem to be making much progress with my packing.” She smiled at him more brightly. “Let's wade ashore, pal, and get to work instead of talking about things better left alone. I know just exactly what you're thinking—and I'm going to let you help me instead of Polycarp. I'm frightfully angry with him, anyway. He promised me, on his word of honor, that he wouldn't mention a thing—and he must have actually hunted for a chance to tell! He didn't have the nerve to come to the house yesterday, when he was here with Fred—perhaps he won't come to-day, after all. So you'll have to help me make my getaway, pal.”
Kent wavered. “You're the limit, all right,” he told her after a period of hesitation. “You just wait, old girl, till you get that conscience of yours squared! What shall I do? I can pack a war-bag in one minute and three-quarters, and a horse in five minutes—provided he don't get gay and pitch the pack off a time or two, and somebody's around to help throw the hitch. Just tell me where to start in, and you won't be able to see me for dust!”
“You seem in a frightful hurry to have me go,” Val complained, laughing nevertheless with the nervous reaction. “Packing a trunk takes time, and care, and intelligence.”
“Now isn't that awful?” Kent's eyes flared with mirth, all the more pronounced because it was entirely superficial. “Well, you take the time and care, Mrs. Goodpacker, and I'll cheerfully furnish the intelligence, This goes, I reckon?” He squeezed a pink cushion into as small a space as possible, and held it out at arm's length.
“That goes—to Arline. Don't put it in there!” Val's laughter was not far from hysteria. Kent was pretending to stuff the pink cushion into her hand bag.
“Better take it; you'll—”
The front door was pushed violently open and Manley almost fell into the room. Val gave a little, inarticulate cry and shrank back against the wall before she could recover herself. They had for the moment forgotten Manley, and all he stood for in the way of heartbreak.
A strange-looking Manley he was, with his white face and staring, bloodshot eyes, and the cruel, animal lines around his mouth. Hardly recognizable to one who had not seen him since three or four years before, he would have been. He stopped short just over the threshold, and glanced suspiciously from one to the other before he came farther into the room.
“Dig up some grub, Val—in a bag, so I can carry it on horseback,” he commanded. “And a blanket—where did you put those rifle cartridges?” He hurried across the room to where his rifle and belt hung upon the wall, just over the little, homemade bookcase. “I had a couple of boxes—where are they?” He snatched down the rifle, took the belt, and began buckling it around him with fumbling fingers.
Mechanically Val reached upon a higher shelf and got him the two boxes of shells. Her eyes were fixed curiously upon his face.