The doctor leaned back in his chair and laughed (they were at breakfast) and remarked that old friends were best.
“Don’t call my asthmatic tin beast a friend; we’re bitter enemies,” said she.
It carried her to Terry Creek about noon, however, safely enough, whither she went with a firm resolution that crushed a certain embarrassment and anxiety. Suppose these people resented her inquiries.
She placed the bearded, tanned rancher at once, when she saw him working on a piece of harness before the door as she drove up. She had seen him in town at different times. She once had stopped here, too, several years previous when accompanying her father, who had been called to dress the rancher’s injured hand. The girl could not have been over twelve or thirteen then, a shabby, awkward girl wearing a braid who came out to gaze shyly at her sitting in the car.
Johnson arose from the ground and approached as she alighted, while the girl’s head popped into sight at the door.
“I’m Dr. Hosmer’s daughter, Janet,” she stated, putting out her hand and smiling. “I’ve come to see you on a matter. Shall we go into the house?”
With curiosity sharing a vague hostility in his bearing he led her in, where his daughter was setting the table. Janet also told the girl who she was. At once dismay and startlement greeted the announcement. But she invited Janet to be seated, she herself withdrawing to a spot by the stove.
No need for Janet to beat about the bush with her errand.
“Mr. Johnson,” she said, “I’ve come to you and your daughter for a little help if you can give it.” That seemed the best way to break down their reserve, an appeal rather than simply blunt questions––and what was it if not an appeal? “What I have to say is 109 just among the three of us and I know it will go no farther. You’re acquainted with my father; he’s respected by every one.”