“You see I’ve got to get busy, if I’m going to get the price of that teeny, weeny bungalow,” he explained. “Now that we’re engaged, you might kiss me good-by—eh?”
“We’re not engaged, and I’ll not kiss you good-by or good anything else. I don’t believe in people kissing until they’re married.”
“Then why are you always raving about the wonderful kisses Antonio Moreno, or Milton Sills, or some other poor prune, gives the heroine at the end of the last reel?” he demanded.
“Oh, that’s different,” she explained. “Anyway, they’re just going to get married. When we are just going to get married I’ll let you kiss me—once a week, maybe.”
“Thanks!” he cried.
A moment later he swung into the saddle, and with a wave of his hand cantered off up the cañon.
“Now what,” said the girl to herself, “is he going up there for? He can’t make any money back there in the hills. He ought to be headed straight for home and his typewriter!”
CHAPTER VII
Across the rustic bridge, and once behind the sycamores at the lower end of the cow pasture, Guy Evans let his horse out into a rapid gallop. A few minutes later he overtook a horseman who was moving at a slow walk farther up the cañon. At the sound of the pounding hoofbeats behind him, the latter turned in his saddle, reined about and stopped. The boy rode up and drew in his blowing mount beside the other.