"Well, he shan't do it; that's certain. It will be a cold day when he gets me masquerading in the family character. Let him go just one step too far and I'll shake him off for good, and strike out on a freight-train. Life couldn't be any worse than it is now, and it might be a great deal better. As to my hanging round like this much longer and swearing at a pack of worthless darkies—well, it's more than I bargain for, that's all."
"There's not much excitement in it, to be sure. I would rather be a freight-hand myself, I think, when all is said."
"Oh, you needn't joke. You were brought up to it and it doesn't come so hard."
"Doesn't it?"
"Not so hard as it does to me, at any rate. There's got to be some dash about life, I tell you, to make it suit my taste. I wasn't born to settle down and count my money and my tobacco from morning till night. It's spice I want in things, and—hang it! I don't believe there's a pretty woman in the county."
For a moment Christopher stared silently down at the matted straw. His face had grown dark, and the reckless lines about his mouth became suddenly prominent.
"Why, where's Molly Peterkin?" he asked abruptly, with a laugh that seemed to slip from him against his will.
The other broke into a long whistle and tossed the end of his cigarette through the doorway.
"You needn't think I've forgotten her," he replied; "she's the one bright spot I see in this barren hole. By the way, why do you think her a fool?"
"Because she is one."