Probyn seized the loaf somewhat clumsily, so that in steadying it Hetty's fingers left an impression on the plastic dough.
"Now," said Probyn gravely, "that ought to make it worth another ten dollars to anybody."
"Would you think it worth all that?"
"A hundred," said Probyn, "would not be too much. I'd buy the thing now only, unfortunately, I haven't a coin of any kind by me. There are, you see, a good many disadvantages attached to being a police trooper."
"Are there?" said Hetty. "Then why did you become one, and what would you have liked to be?"
"That," answered the lad, with a trace of dryness, "is neither here nor there." Then his eyes twinkled again. "A baker! Couldn't you give me that loaf on credit—to keep forever?"
"I certainly couldn't. Besides, you would eat it the first time you were hungry. Hold it still while I make it smooth again!"
She did it with dainty little pats, and the lad watched her, openly appreciative, with his head on one side, for her pose and the movements of arm and shoulder effectively displayed a prettily moulded figure.
"There's a little bit you have left out. Hadn't you better go round it again?" he said.
It was, perhaps, not altogether wise of Hetty to laugh provokingly as she glanced at him; but she was young, and masculine approbation was no more distasteful to her than it is to most young women. She also believed—as she had, indeed, once pointed out to Tom Leger—that, though Trooper Probyn had very little sense, there was not a grain of harm in him.