“I’ve told her,” said Candon.
“What you say?” asked Hank.
“I’ve told her all about myself and who I am, and the chances, told her when you chaps went off for the stores. Told her it’s possible McGinnis may light down on us before we’ve done, seeing the work before us on that sand, and there’ll maybe be fighting she oughtn’t to be mixed up in.”
“B’gosh!” said Hank. “I never thought of that. What did she say?”
“Oh, she said, ‘Let him come.’ Wouldn’t listen to anything about turning back, said we’d be quitters if we dropped it now.”
“Lord, she’s a peach.”
“She’s more than that,” said Candon. “Well, I’m going for a breather before turning in.” He tapped his pipe out and, rising, walked off down along the sea edge.
George laughed. He was laughing at the size of Candon compared to the size of Tommie, and the quaint idea that had suddenly come to him, the idea that Candon had suddenly become gone on her.
George could view the matter in a detached way, for though T. C. appealed to him as an individual, he scarcely considered her as a girl.
A lot of little signs and symptoms collected themselves together in his head, capped by the tone of those words, “She’s more than that.” Yes, it was highly probable that the heart punch had come to B. C. Why not? Tommie as an anchor wasn’t much, as far as size went, yet as far as character and heart—who could tell? All the indications were in her favour.