“That’s jus’ what I was thinkin’,” was Peg’s incautious comment. “An’ mebbe fer that very reason, you’d better——”
He hesitated and stopped short under the steady stare of Whitcomb’s blue eyes.
“Y’—see,” he blundered on, “ef Miss Barb’ry hes to go ’way fer five years, I was thinkin’——”
“She won’t go away for five years, if I can help it,” said David. “I’m going to try and get her out of the mess she’s made of things.”
His eyes wrinkled at the corners and he laughed outright at the strange working of Peg’s untutored features.
“Don’t you bother your old head about Miss Barbara’s affairs,” he said carelessly, “nor”—his keen look threatened serious displeasure—“mine.”
He turned decidedly and made his way towards Bellows, who had just disposed of the last lot of merchandise and stepped down from his perch among the rapidly dispersing crowd.
But the auctioneer could not, when questioned, furnish the address of the small man in checked clothes, who had paid four thousand dollars for a hypothetical term of Barbara’s service. He shook his head vigorously when urged to a further explanation of what had immediately followed the event at the Preston farm.
“Nope,” he persisted. “I can’t help you none. I done all I was paid t’ do an’——”