"Certainly, Miss Sard." Colter said it gravely, cheerfully, with the machine-like acquiescence of the trained gardener or chauffeur. Sard turned and walked away, and he as quietly went back to his work, but through the young being, in that strange phase of a woman's mind and body that we call "intuition," went the baffling cadence of a man's voice, a cadence of doubt, terror and then the patient and controlled, "Very well, Miss Sard."
Something of tradition in the girl tried to drown it. Dismayed, she realized how this thing possessed her, how this voice rang in her physical being, "Very well, Miss Sard." She drew herself up. Was she, then, a woman of birth, a girl of two years' college training to be affected by the mere voice of a vagabond, a tramp, an unshaven ne'er-do-well?
As the two girls got into their camping things, Sard outlined the afternoon's programme. "And I want to suggest—let's see what you think—I don't suppose we should treat Colter quite like a common person; well, one can see that he's not exactly a man of all work."
Minga pinned back the flap of her scarlet tam-o'-shanter. "It would be improper to treat him otherwise," Minga decided with what for her was rather austere decision. "He isn't common exactly, but queer, and that's worse; Sard," went on Minga with an air of superiority, "I don't see how you could have picked him up like that and carted him in your nice clean car to that boarding-house place; Dunce says you all but helped carry him and gave directions and all—Ugh—and then lied to your father, pretending all this about a common workman."
Sard's face darkened. "I didn't lie," she said in a low voice. "I picked him up because I had seen him there sitting, hour after hour, with that queer dazed look, so wretched, shaken and awful. I'll admit he looked dreadful, but somehow his eyes didn't look dirty; something that was awfully clean spoke through all his wretchedness, and when I heard him tell those stupid policemen that he 'couldn't remember,' his voice got to me—got to me——" Sard restlessly wandered about the room unable to express what she meant. "I suddenly felt that I, well, I knew him, and," announced the girl defiantly, "I've somehow felt that way ever since. I just knew. I admit it's queer, Minga."
"It's queer, all right," Minga said succinctly, "and so are you." She stuck her scarf inside her boyish little jacket and struck an attitude in her boots and knickerbockers.
"Fluffy Fiddlestick, the film heroine, is now going to give the Hackensack the once-over," she announced. "Talk about screen stuff; all this that you say about this tramp man, Sard, is worse than any screen story I ever saw, and you so demure! It isn't lying, but it's letting things lie for you; you got that bank person at Morris to suggest Colter to Judgie. Does Aunt Reely know you're responsible for his being here? A regular Gentleman John, and nobody but you in the secret." Minga, with quite an injured air, picked up her wrist-watch and fastened it on; she eyed herself in the mirror. "Do I need lipstick, no? Would the turtles appreciate red lips?"
"Well, you do know he's not a common man?" Sard asked, obstinately.
"Mercy, I don't know anything," retreated Minga easily. "Now, how do we get by Auntie's bower in these knickers?"