It was not many days before the Happy Hexagons said good-by to the ranch—a most reluctant good-by. It was a question, however, which felt the worst: Mammy Lindy, weeping on the gallery steps, Mr. Tim and the boys, waving a noisy good-by from their saddles, or Mrs. Kennedy and the Happy Hexagons—the latter tearfully giving their Texas yell with "THE RANCH" for the final word to-day.
"I think I never had such a good time in all my life," breathed Cordelia.
"I know I never did," choked Tilly. "Genevieve, we can't ever begin to thank you for it all!"
"I—I don't want you to," wailed Genevieve, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. "I reckon you haven't had any better time than I have!"
Quentina was at the Bolo station; so, too, was Susie Billings.
"O Happy Hexagons, Happy Hexagons, I just had to come," chanted Quentina, standing some distance away, and extending two restraining hands, palms outward. "Don't kiss me—don't come near me! I don't think I've got any whooping germs about me, but we want to be on the safe side."
"But, Quentina, how are you? How are all of you?" cried Genevieve, plainly distressed. "I think it's just horrid—staying off at arm's length like this!"
"But you must, dear," almost sobbed Quentina. "I wouldn't have you go through what we are going through with at home for anything. Such a whoop—whoop—whooping time!"
"Couldn't you make a poem on it?" bantered Tilly. "I should think 'twould make a splendid subject—you could use such sonorous, resounding words."
Quentina shook her head dismally.