Patricia read this over twice with her lips buttoned in tightly. Then she licked the pencil again—indelibly marking her pink tongue for an inch down the middle—and inserted just before the ’phone number, the word “permanent” and drew two lines underneath for emphasis. This was meant as a trenchant warning to Gary Marshall that he need not trouble himself any further concerning Patricia’s investment nor about Patricia herself, for that matter.
Patricia paid the display ad rate and marched out, feeling as irrevocably committed to cynical maidenhood as if she had taken the veil. Men as such were weak, vain creatures who thought to hold the heart of a woman in the curve of an eyelash. Meaning, needless to say, Gary Marshall’s eyelash which should not longer hold the heart of Patricia Connolly.
Patricia’s telephone began ringing at six o’clock on Sunday morning and continued ringing spasmodically until ten minutes past twelve, when Patricia dropped the receiver off the hook and let it dangle, thereby giving the busy signal whenever 11270 was dialed.
For six hours and ten minutes Patricia had felt a definite sinking sensation in her chest when a strange voice came to her over the ’phone. She would have wanted to murder any one who so much as hinted that she hoped to hear Gary say expostulatingly, “For heck’s sake, Pat, what’s the big idea of this ad? I can’t feature it!”
Had she heard that, Patricia would have gloried in telling him, with the voice that went with the square chin, that she was sorry, but the place was already taken. Then she would have hung up and waited until he recovered from that wallop and called again. Then—well, Patricia had not decided definitely just what she would do, except that she was still firmly resolved upon being an old maid.
At seven o’clock in the morning the first man called to see her. Patricia was ready for him, clothed in her office tailored suit and her office manner. The man’s name was Hawkins, and he seemed much surprised to find that a young woman owned the “small cattle ranch in Nevada.”
Hawkins informed Patricia, in the very beginning of their conversation, that he was a fair man who never yet had cheated any one out of a nickel. He said that if anything he was too honest, and that this was the reason why he hadn’t a ranch of his own and was not independent. He said that he invariably let the other fellow have the big end of a bargain, rather than have the load on his conscience that he had possibly not been perfectly square. As to cheating a woman, well, he hinted darkly that killing was too good for any man who would take advantage of a woman in a business deal. Hawkins was so homely that Patricia knew he must be honest as he said he was. She believed practically everything he said, and by eight o’clock on a calm Sunday morning, P. Connolly and James Blaine Hawkins were partners in the ranch at Johnnywater.
James Blaine Hawkins was so anxious that Patricia should have practically all the profits in the deal, that he dictated terms which he facetiously urged her never to tell on him; they were so one-sided (Patricia’s side). Hawkins, in his altruistic extravagance, had volunteered to devote his time, labor and long experience in cattle raising, to almost the sole benefit of Patricia. He was to receive merely two thirds of the increase in stock, plus his living expenses. For good measure he proposed to donate the use of his car, charging Patricia only for the gas and oil.
Patricia typed the agreement on her machine, using all the business phrases she had learned from taking dictation in the office. The document when finished was a beautiful piece of work, absolutely letter perfect and profusely decorated with whereases, be it therefore agreeds and—of course—hereofs, party of the first parts and party of the second parts. Any lawyer would have gasped over the reading. But James Blaine Hawkins considered it a marvelous piece of work and said so. And Patricia was mightily pleased with herself and drew a sigh of relief when James Blaine Hawkins had departed with a signed copy of the Patricia-made AGREEMENT OF CONTRACT in his pocket. Patricia held the original; held it literally for the next two hours. She read it over and over and couldn’t see where one word could be changed for the betterment of the document.
“And what’s the use of haggling and talking and whittling sticks over a simple thing like this?” Patricia asked a critical world. “Mr. Hawkins knew what he wanted to do, and I knew what I wanted to do—and talking for a week wouldn’t have accomplished anything at all. And anyway, that’s settled, and I’ve got Johnnywater off my mind for the next five years, thank Heaven. Gary Marshall can go on smirking the rest of his life if he wants to. I’m sure it’s absolutely immaterial to me.”