“A chap that was visiting me one summer brought her to a dance here at the Prouty House—did it on a bet that he hadn’t sand enough. She came downstairs looking like a Christmas tree. Everybody gave her the frosty mitt and they had to leave.”
Prentiss watched a smoke ring rise before he asked:
“Why did they do that?”
“So she wouldn’t make the same mistake again.”
Toomey laughed, and added:
“They took a ‘fall’ out of her every time they could after that. There was something about her that invited it,” he added reflectively, “the way she held her head up, as if she defied them to do their worst, and,” chuckling, “they did.”
Prentiss thrust a forefinger inside his collar and gave it a tug as though it choked.
“This Mormon Joe—what became of him?”
The gleeful light went out of Toomey’s face.
“He was killed in a shack down here.”