"You heard me! Get out!" cried Hilton.
For a moment the Reverend stood, as though undecided.
"I am sorry," he said, "that I can not interest you. If not today, then another time, perhaps? A splendid gift for a lady, my friend, a—"
"Nobody here wants to listen to you. Be on your way!"
Sorrowfully the Reverend replaced the pen in his pocket, rattling it against the remainder of his stock. As he turned away he drew them all out and stood for some time beside his horse, counting them carefully, muttering to himself. He looked about his feet, retraced his steps to where he had stood in his attempt to make a sale, scanning the ground.
"Can it be," he asked absently, "that I have miscounted?"
He gave no heed to the two who watched him but it was a matter of ten minutes before he was finally satisfied that there had been no loss—or that nothing else would be lost that day—and rode away.
By that time Hilton's ill temper was implacable and in Bobby's face was a half frightened, bewildered look. She turned to the Easterner with a questioning little gesture but he did not respond.
"He spoiled it for a while, Bobby," he said. "Let's ride back."