“Huh!” said Jeff, startled. “Who in hell is Mr. White?”
“Mr. White—in hell—is the devil!” said Charley.
At this unexpected disclosure Jeff lashed his horse to a gallop—his spurs, you remember, being certain feet under the Ophir dump—and strove to bring his thoughts to bear upon this new situation. He slowed down and Charley drew up beside him.
“You seem to have stayed quite a while—in a garden,” suggested Charley.
“That tongue of yours is going to get you into trouble yet,” said Jeff. “You’ll never live to be grayheaded.”
Charley was not to be daunted.
“Say, Jeff, she’s pretty easy to get acquainted with, what? And those eyes of hers—a little on the see-you-later style, aren’t they?”
Jeff turned in his saddle.
“Now you look here, Mr. Charley Gibson! I’m under obligations to you, and so on—but I’ve heard all of that kind of talk that’s good—sabe?”
“Oh, I know her,” persisted Charley. “Know her by heart—know her like a book. She made a fool of me, too. She drives ’em single, double, tandem, random and four abreast!”