"What are you going to do?" "Red" was amused rather than alarmed.
"Oh, I'll get a job somewhere. Punch cows—or maybe join the rangers. There's always something a fellow can do."
"An' what about your uncle?"
"I'll put him up in Bisbee till I get a chance to ship him back to Bangor. He likes Bangor, you know!" Gilbert smiled.
"He takes it sort o' hard, don't he?"
"Well, you can't blame the old boy. You see, I got him to sell out everything—everything, and invest in this ranch. Maybe it wasn't the right thing to do; but I thought I was certain to succeed. I meant all for the best, 'Red.' You know that." Who could doubt those gray eyes of Gilbert Jones, that open, frank, boyish face?
"Of course I do." He got up, and walked over to the window. "Your uncle don't like jokin' much, does he? I asked him the other day why he didn't get a chauffeur. Gosh! he got mad!" "Red" laughed at the recollection.
"Uncle Henry's in no joking mood just now. You can't blame him much."
"Red" turned and looked at his employer. He didn't know whether he should ask the next question or not; but he took his courage in his hands.
"He—he wants you to—to marry Angela Hardy, don't he?"