In that brief moment that the Girl stood in the doorway reviewing her possessions, a multitude of expressions drifted across her countenance, a multitude of possibilities thrilled within her bosom. But however much she would have liked to analyse these strange feelings, she resisted the inclination and gave all her attention to the amusing scene that was being enacted before her eyes.
For some time Billy Jackrabbit had been standing by the table looking greedily down upon the charlotte russes there. He was on the point of putting his finger through the centre of one of them when Wowkle—the Indian woman-of-all-work of the cabin, who sat upon the floor before the fire singing a lullaby to the papoose strapped to its cradle on her back—turning suddenly her gaze in his direction, was just in time to prevent him.
“Charlotte rusk—Palmetto rest’rant—not take,” were her warning words.
Jackrabbit drew himself up quickly, but he was furious at interference from a source where it was wholly unexpected.
“Hm—me honest,” he growled fiercely, flashing her a malignant look.
“Huh?” was Wowkle’s monosyllabic observation delivered in a guttural tone.
All of a sudden, Jackrabbit’s gaze was arrested by a piece of paper which lay upon the floor and in which had been wrapped the charlotte russes; he went over to it quickly, picked it up, opened it and proceeded to collect on his finger the cream that had adhered to it.
“Huh!” he growled delightedly, holding up his finger for Wowkle’s inspection. The next instant, however, he slumped down beside her upon the floor, where both the man and the woman sat in silence gazing into the fire. The man was the first to speak.
“Send me up—Polka. Say, p’haps me marry you—huh?” he said, coming to the point bluntly.
Wowkle’s eyes were glued to the fire; she answered dully: