“You’ll do no such thing,” said Mrs. Dan, emphatically. “You’ll get a buggy and drive, or get someone to drive you, with that side an’ chest o’ yours.”
Steve laughed at her. “I don’t sit in the saddle on my side and chest, Mrs. Trooper Mulcahy,” he said. “What’s the difference to ride or drive? And, anyhow, I’m itching to feel a horse under me again.”
“It makes the difference that you might get trouble wi’ those wounds again,” said Mrs. Dan. “You said yourself that the doctor wanted you to go to bed wi’ them.”
“And I told him to go to his granny,” said Steve. “As if I cared a curse for all his blood-poisoning threats. What’s the odds to anyone if I do get poisoned, or anything else?”
“Steve,” said Mrs. Dan, looking hard at him, “what’s the matter wi’ you these days? You’re hard as a flint an’ bitter as aloes. It might be crossed in love you are.”
Steve winced, but he laughed loudly.
“I am,” he said; “I’m a disappointed man. I’ve found out I’m up to the neck in love with yourself, you dear. Come on now—will you mount and ride and run away with me?”
“Ye impident scoundril,” cried Dan; “it’s meself that’s sorry I didn’t shoot ye through the liver whin I’d the chanst.”
“I’ll reserve that offer, Steve,” said Mrs. Dan, lightly. But her sharp eyes had noted Steve’s flinching at the word of being crossed in love. “Danny,” she said, “run away for a bit. I want Steve to have a chance to make love to me nicely.”
“Faith, it’s little enough givin’ av chances he needs. But so be it happens I have to walk down the street a piece. I’ll be back in tin minutes,” and he rose and went. “What’s the little woman afther now, I wonder?” he said to himself. “If she hasn’t wheedled an’ coaxed the boy into somethin’ or out av it in tin minutes, it’s meself doesn’t know her.”