“No gal ever lived that knowed her own mind,” puts in Sewell, snappy as the dickens, and actin’ powerful oneasy.
“But Mace ain’t the usual brand,” I says. “She’s got a good haid–a fine haid. She’s like you, Sewell.”
“You can keep you’ compliments to home,” says the boss. Then, after a little bit, “S’pose you been plannin’ a’ready where you’d settle.” (This sorta inquirin’.)
“Ya-a-as,” I says, “we’ve talked some of that little house in Briggs City which Doc Trowbridge lets–the one over to the left of the tracks.”
That second, I seen a look come over his face that made me plumb goose-flesh. It was the sorta look that a’ ole bear gives you when you’ve got him hurt and into a corner–some appealin’, y’ savvy, and a hull lot mad.
“Gosh!” I says to myself, “I put my foot in it when I brung up Billy’s name. Sewell recollects the time I stuck in my lip.”
“You plan t’ live in Briggs,” he says. He squz his lips t’gether, and turned his face towards the ranch-house. Mace was inside, goin’ back’ards and for’ards ’twixt the dinin’-room and the kitchen. She looked awful cute and pretty from where we was, and was callin’ sassy things to the Chinaman. Sewell watched her and watched her, and I recalled later on (when I wasn’t so all-fired anxious and excited), that the ole man’s face was some white, and he was kinda all lent over.
“Ya-a-as,” I continues (some trembley, though), “that place of Billy’s ’d suit.”
Two seconds, and Sewell come round on me like as if he’d chaw me into bits. “What you goin’ to rent on?” he ast. “What you goin’ to live on?”
“Wal,” I answers, sorta took back, “I got about three hunderd dollars left of the money Up-State give me. Wal, that’s my nest-aig. And I can make my little forty a month–and grub–any ole day in the week.”