When a sign on the tar-paper shack which bore the legend "Warshing" was replaced by "Plane Sewing Done," she reported the change and, again, the fact that he was aware of Mrs. Abe Tutts's existence was due to Essie Tisdale's graphic account of the outburst of temper in which that erratic lady, while rehearsing the rôle of a duchess in an amateur production, kicked, not figuratively but literally, the duke—a rôle essayed by the talented plasterer—down the stairs of Odd Fellow's Hall over the General Merchandise Store. The girl enjoyed life and its small incidents with the zest of exuberant youth and Van Lennop often declared himself as anxious that Mrs. Percy Parrott should accumulate enough from the sale of milk to buy screens before flytime as that lady herself since Essie sustained his interest by daily account of the addition to the screen fund. He was still thinking of the combative Mrs. Tutts when he opened a book and sat down by the open window.
A murmur of voices which began shortly underneath his window did not disturb him, though subconsciously he was aware that one of them belonged to Essie Tisdale. It was not until he heard his own name that he lifted his eyes from the interesting pages before him.
"You lak him I t'ink—dat loafer—dat fellow Van Lennop?"
Van Lennop recognized the thick, gutteral voice of old Edouard Dubois.
"Like him? Of course I like him, and"—there was asperity in Essie's tone now—"he isn't a loafer."
"Hold-up, then," substituted Dubois.
"Nor a hold-up."
"What you t'ink he is?"
"Something you would never recognize," she answered sharply; "a gentleman."
Van Lennop smiled, for in his mind's eye he could see the tense aggressiveness of her slim figure.