The man at her side smiled.
“I can't say that I blame him much, Barbara,” he replied. “It was a very foolish thing for me to bring you down here at this time. I can't understand what ever possessed me to do it.”
“Don't blame yourself, dear,” remonstrated the girl, “when it was all my fault. I begged and begged and begged until you had to consent, and I'm not sorry either—if nothing happens to you because of our coming. I couldn't stay in New York another minute. Everyone was so snoopy, and I could just tell that they were dying to ask questions about Billy and me.”
“I can't get it through my head yet, Barbara,” said the man, “why in the world you broke with Billy Mallory. He's one of the finest young men in New York City today—just my ideal of the sort of man I'd like my only daughter to marry.”
“I tried, Papa,” said the girl in a low voice; “but I couldn't—I just couldn't.”
“Was it because—” the man stopped abruptly. “Well, never mind dear, I shan't be snoopy too. Here now, you run along and do some snooping yourself about the ranch. I want to stop in and have a talk with Grayson.”
Down by one of the corrals where three men were busily engaged in attempting to persuade an unbroken pony that a spade bit is a pleasant thing to wear in one's mouth, Barbara found a seat upon a wagon box which commanded an excellent view of the entertainment going on within the corral. As she sat there experiencing a combination of admiration for the agility and courage of the men and pity for the horse the tones of a pleasant masculine voice broke in upon her thoughts.
“Out there somewhere!” says I to me. “By Gosh, I guess, thats poetry!”
“Out there somewhere—Penelope—with kisses on her mouth!”
And then, thinks I, “O college guy! your talk it gets me in the eye,
The north is creeping in the air, the birds are flying south.”
Barbara swung around to view the poet. She saw a slender man astride a fagged Mexican pony. A ragged coat and ragged trousers covered the man's nakedness. Indian moccasins protected his feet, while a torn and shapeless felt hat sat upon his well-shaped head. AMERICAN was written all over him. No one could have imagined him anything else. Apparently he was a tramp as well—his apparel proclaimed him that; but there were two discordant notes in the otherwise harmonious ensemble of your typical bo. He was clean shaven and he rode a pony. He rode erect, too, with the easy seat of an army officer.
At sight of the girl he raised his battered hat and swept it low to his pony's shoulder as he bent in a profound bow.