He picked up a paper lying on a chair near him and looked it over until the kitchen door squeaked. She carried a tray covered with a snow-white napkin which looked like a topographical map with its mountains and valleys and plains. His chuckle was infectious to the extent of a smile and her eyes danced as she placed his dinner before him.
"Betcha it's fine," he grinned, shoveling sugar into the inky coffee. "Blinky oughta have a good look at this layout."
"Don't be too sure," she retorted. "Mrs. Olmstead is sick and I 'm taking charge of things for her. I 'm not a good cook."
"Nothin 's th' matter with this," he assured her between bites. "Lots better 'n most purty girls can do. If Hopalong goes up against this he 'll offer you a hundred a month an' throw Blinky in to wash th' dishes. But he 'd have to 'point me guard, or you would n't have no time to do no cookin'."
"You 'd make a fine guard," she retorted.
"Don't believe it, huh? Jus' wait till you know me better."
"How do you know I 'm going to?"
"I 'm a good guesser. Jus' put a li'l pepper right there on that yalla spot. Say, any chance to get a job in this town?"
"Why, I don't know."
"Goin' to stay long?"