"Dale," Bob implored, trying to control his laughter, "for the love of Mike cut 'aura' from your vocabulary! Honest, my friend, if you ever should walk into the Colonel's drawing room in that costume and announce that your aura is tinctured with savagery, it would be worse than murder!"
Again the mountaineer's face became troubled; indeed, it held an expression of childish helplessness, made so pathetic by a succeeding, shy glance at his awkward costume of homespun, that the young planter winced.
"That's all right," he said, contrite enough now, and giving the broad shoulder another friendly slap. "Before long you'll be turning out classier stuff than any of us. And we like your clothes."
"I'm a-goin' ter larn," Dale murmured through clenched teeth. "I'm a-goin' ter larn all thar is, 'n' a whole lot moh; so help me Gawd I will."
For awhile they rode without speaking until the Colonel was seen waiting at a turn of the road. Then Dale asked:
"Ye reckon he meant that, 'bout me livin' with 'im?"
"'Course he meant it. He'll make you think you own the place in twenty-four hours, and you won't feel the slightest obligation."
"What's obligation?"
Patiently Bob went through the definition, and Dale again asked:
"Who's the feller he calls Brent?"