“She can ride all right—she tole me,” said Darby the Bull.
“I might len’ ’er my ’orse,” said Blazes, reflectively. Now Blazes’ horse was the standing joke of the Ridge. The men swore he’d been crossed with a sheep and was born too tired to feed himself. But Blazes thought a lot of his horse, and was most jealous of anyone using it, although he had little riding to do himself. His offer to lend it made the men laugh, but it made Steve open his eyes.
“You too, Blazes,” he said. “The whole camp seems to have gone crazy over this girl.”
“Reckon you’ll go crazy too when you see ’er,” said Jack Ever.
“What’s she like then?” said Steve. “Let’s hear all about her, and then we may get talking of other things. Now then, Jack—fire ahead.”
“She’s pretty as a pictur in a gilt frame,” said Jack. “She ’as ’ands like a duchess, and a figure like a green goddess.”
Steve spluttered over his tea. “Didn’t know there was an assortment of colours in the goddess line, Jack,” he said. “But we’ll let it go at Greek goddess.”
“I read it in a book somewheres,” said Jack. “One o’ Nat Gould’s, an’ the chap was ravin’ about the gal’s figure.”
“She has a figure that makes you think how well she’d look on a horse,” said Whip Thompson. “And she carries her head as high, and steps as dainty, as a thoroughbred.”
“Come on, Darby,” laughed Steve. “You next.”