Mr. Derwent was first to perceive the pair.
“See there, Robert,” he said, with his crisp, short manner of speech. “I think we’ve seen only one head that matches the Yellowstone?”
His nephew followed the direction of the other’s fixed gaze.
“Well, I’ll—be—” he began, “if there isn’t Brute, fussing our heaver.”
Mr. Derwent laid a restraining hand on the arm of his companion, who made an instant move in his friend’s direction.
“Not a bit of it,” replied Robert, close to his uncle’s ear. “It’s up to us to rescue her. She isn’t his heaver.”
“She doesn’t look as if she wished to be rescued,” remarked Mr. Derwent; and the concern in his face moved his irreverent nephew to merriment.
“You see Hebe isn’t a goddess, after all,” he remarked into the rubber device which hung about his uncle’s neck. “Just a nice, every-day heaver; and her hair’s caught Brute. Let’s go and see.”
Mr. Derwent’s face was impassive as he followed. The childlike eyes and the modest demeanor of the pretty waitress had greatly attracted him. He was sorry to find her like this.