Those he addressed looked at one another, and Kinnaird, rising, went out hastily.
KINNAIRD STRIKES CAMP
It was about the middle of the next afternoon when Ida Stirling, walking slowly along the river-bank, came upon Weston sitting with his back to a tree. He wore no boot on one foot which was wrapped in bandages, and when he would have risen Ida checked him with a sign, and sat down not far away.
“Is it too hot in the tent?” he asked.
Ida flashed a swift glance at him. He seemed perfectly contented, and very much at his ease, and it was a little difficult to believe that this was the sharp-voiced mart who had ordered her to put on his jacket early on the previous morning. Now he was smiling languidly, and there was a graceful carelessness that was almost boyish in his manner, which made it a little easier to understand why his comrades had called him the Kid. She was rather pleased with it.
“No,” she said. “At least that was not what brought me out. The major has gone fishing; Mrs. Kinnaird has gone to sleep; and Arabella appears a little cross.”
Weston nodded.
“It’s excusable,” he said. “How is Miss Kinnaird’s knee?”
“I don’t think it’s very bad. How is your foot? It doesn’t seem to have affected your temper.”