Betty did not answer. She knew how old Caleb was.
“Hadn’t been for me it would’er laid him out.”
The girl started, and her eyes flashed. “Bill Lacey, Caleb knows more in a minute than you ever will in your whole life. You shan’t talk that way about him, neither.”
“Well, who’s a-talkin’?” said Lacey, looking down at her, more occupied with the curve of her throat than with his reply.
“You are, an’ you know it,” she answered sharply.
“I didn’t mean nothin’, Betty. I ain’t got nothin’ agin him ’cept his gittin’ you.” Then in a lower tone, “You needn’t take my head off, if I did say it.”
“I ain’t takin’ your head off, Billy.” She looked into his eyes for the first time, her voice softening. She was never angry with any one for long; besides, she felt older than he, and a certain boyishness in him appealed to her.
“You spoke awful cross,” he said, bending until his lips almost touched her curls, “an’ you know, Betty, there ain’t a girl, married or single, up ’n’ down this shore nor nowheres else, that I think as much of as I do you, an’ if”—
“Here, now, Bill Lacey!” some one shouted.
The young rigger stepped back, and turned his head.