"Yes," he replied, "yes, Dic, I will be glad—" Justice at the moment recovered sight and hearing, and gazed stonily at its mate. The mate, after a brief pause, continued in a different tone:—
"That is, I don't care. You and mother fix it between you. I don't know anything about such matters." Mr. Bays leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and examined his feet as if he had just discovered them. After a close scrutiny he continued:—
"Rita's the best girl that ever lived. I don't care where you look, there's not another like her in all the world. She has never caused me a moment of pain—" Rita moved her chair to her father's side and took his hand—"she has brought me nothing but happiness, and I would—" He ceased speaking, and no one has ever known what Mr. Bays "would," for at that interesting point in his remarks his worthy spouse interrupted him—
"Nothing brings you pain. You shirk it and throw it all on me. Lord knows the girl has brought trouble enough to me. I have toiled and worked and suffered for her. I bear the burdens of this house, and if my daughter is better than other girls,—I don't say she is, and I don't say she isn't,—but if she is better than other girls, I say it is because I have done my duty by her."
Truth compels me to admit that she had done her duty toward the girl with a strenuous sincerity that often amounted to cruelty, but in the main she had done her best for Rita.
Dic had unintentionally turned the tide of battle on Mr. Bays, and that worthy sufferer, long used to the anguish of defeat, and dead to the shame of cowardice, rose from his chair and beat a hasty retreat to his old-time sanctuary, the barn. Dic did not retreat; single-handed and alone, he took lance in hand and renewed the attack with adroit thrusts of flattery and coaxing. After many bouts a compromise was reached and an armistice declared between the belligerent powers until Dic should return from New York. This armistice was virtually a surrender of the Bays forces, so that evening when Dic started home Rita accompanied him to the gate beneath the dark shadow of a drooping elm, and the gate's the place for "a' that and a' that."
Next morning bright and early Dic went to town to see Sampson, the horse-dealer. He found him sitting on the inn porch.
"Well, you're going to take the horses for me, after all?" asked that worthy descendant of one of the tribes.
"Billy Little said you would give me five hundred dollars. That is a very large sum. You first offered me only one hundred."
"Yes," returned Sampson; "I had a talk with Little. Horses are in great demand in New York, and I want an intelligent man who can hurry the drove through to Harrisburg, where I'll meet them. If we get them to New York in advance of the other dealers, we should make a profit of one hundred dollars a head on every good horse. You will have two other men with you, but I will put you in charge. Don't speak of the five hundred dollars you're to have; the others are to receive only fifty dollars each."