JIM NABOURS, his shirt front bulging, approached the door of the Drovers’ Cottage, near which he found a man tinkling a steel triangle, which one day soon would boom a summons thrice a day.
“How are you, sir?” began Nabours. “Can you tell me if Miss Taisie Lockhart is in here? She come up on that herd with us.”
The husband of Lou Gore indicated the rear of the building. Unannounced, Nabours pushed on through the rear hall, beyond whose door he heard sounds of culinary conflict.
“Law, mister, ain’t you in a sort of hurry?” said Lou Gore, a large spoon in one hand. “This is the kitchen. You go on out.”
“But I want to see my boss,” remonstrated the old foreman. “I’ve got five thousand dollars in my shirt for her.”
Lou Gore wiped her hands on her apron.
“Well,” said she, “if you’ve got five thousand dollars come on in. I’ll let you see her if I can.” She approached the bedroom door.
“Jim! Jim!” called a voice he knew very well, a voice full of eagerness now. The door flung open. Taisie, shrouded in blankets, broke out, her radiant face framed in its mass of glowing hair. She flung an arm about the grizzled foreman’s neck. He seemed almost the one friend in all the world for her. “I’m so glad you’ve come!”
“Miss Taisie,” said Jim Nabours succinctly, “here is five thousand dollars. I reckon you’d better put on your pants—if you got nothing else.”
But Taisie sank into a chair, enveloping herself in her blankets. Her eyes were startled.