“We should have thought of the windows.”
“Thank God, we didn't,” he cried.
He went out into the storm with the song of the lark in his heart.
“God, what a beautiful place the world is!” he was saying to himself, and all the while the sleet was stinging his radiant face with the relentlessness of angry bees.
CHAPTER XIII.
As he swung jauntily down the road in the direction of his “office,” all the world might have seen that it was a beautiful place for him. He passed children hurrying to school, and shouted envious “hurry-ups” to them. Men and women, going about the morning's business, felt better for the cheery greetings he gave them. Even Manuel Crust, pushing a crude barrow laden with fire-wood, paused to look after the strutting figure, resuming his progress with an annoyed scowl on his brow, for he had been guilty of a pleasant response to Percival's genial “good-morning.” Manuel went his way wondering what the devil had got into both of them.
Olga Obosky was peering from a window as he passed her hut. He waved his hand at her,—and then shook his head. He had passed her three dancing-girls some distance down the road, romping like children in the snow.
Buck Chizler was waiting for him outside the “office.” The little jockey had something on his mind,—something that caused him to grin sheepishly and at the same time look furtively over his shoulder.
“Can I see you for a coupla minutes, A. A.?” he inquired, following the other to the door.