“I’m not Bob Street, but I’m from Athens, and I’m looking for Bob’s sister. I guess you must be her,” replied Scott. “Well, who are you?” he added, as Juan Pachuca’s legs emerged from the car, followed by his body.
“It’s not Mendoza—he’s sick,” volunteered Polly. “It’s a gentleman who was in the train and who kindly drove me over. Where is my brother?”
“Your letter only came to-night,” stammered Scott, “and in the same mail we had one from your brother in Douglas, saying he had been called East——”
“East!” The blow was too sudden; Polly’s legs collapsed. She sat down on the running-board of the machine and gasped. In the meantime Juan Pachuca stepped to the buckboard.
“It is Señor Scott?” he said pleasantly. “We have met before.”
Scott surveyed him thoughtfully. “Well, by the Lord, if it ain’t Johnny Pachuca! Of all the nerve——”
“Exactly,” grinned Pachuca, appreciatively. “You are surprised, eh? What are you going to do about it?”
“That depends upon how you’ve treated the young lady,” said Marc, quietly, “and on your general behavior,” he added, with a reciprocal grin.
“Haven’t I told you that he was kind enough to drive me over?” said Polly, impatiently. “And if——”
“That being the case,” replied Scott, “I don’t know as there’s anything I can do except say much obliged, and keep my eye on my horse-flesh. If you’ll get into the wagon, Miss ——”