The sarcasm fell short of its mark. “No,” said Ben, with quiet candor, “she gets it from my father. He used to count on licking a lock-tender somewhere along the canal every time he made a trip. I remember there was one particular fellow on the Montezuma Ma’ash that he used to whale for choice, but any of ’em would do on a pinch. He was jest blue-mouldy for a fight all the while, your grandfather was. He was Benjamin Franklin Lawton, the same as me, but somehow I never took much to rassling round or fighting. It’s more in my line to take things easy.”
Lucinda bore an armful of dishes out into the kitchen, without making any reply, and Ben, presently wearying of solitude, followed to where she bent over the sink, enveloped in soap-suds and steam.
“I suppose you’ve got an idea what she’s gone for?” he propounded, with caution.
“It’s a ‘who’ she’s gone for,” said Lucinda.
Pronouns were not Ben’s strong point, and he said, “Yes, I suppose it is,” rather helplessly. He waited in patience for more information, and by and by it came.
“If I was her, I wouldn’t do it,” said Lucinda, slapping a plate impatiently with the wet cloth.
“No, I don’t suppose you would. In some ways you always had more sense than people give you credit for, ‘Cindy,” remarked the father, with guarded flattery. “Jess, now, she’s one of your hoity-toity kind—flare up and whirl around like a wheel on a tree in the Fourth of July fireworks.”
“She’s head and shoulders above all the other Lawtons there ever was or ever will be, and don’t you forget it!” declared the loyal Lucinda, with fervor.
“That’s what I say always,” assented Ben. “Only—I thought you said you didn’t think she was quite right in doing what she’s going to do.”
“It’s right enough; only she was happy here, and this’ll make her miserable again—though, of course, she was always letting her mind run on it, and perhaps she’ll enjoy having it with her—only the girls may talk—and—”