“Not bad, eh?” Hard stopped beside her, thinking how her splendid youth and vibrant coloring harmonized with the surroundings.
“Not bad at all,” laughed the girl. “You only need a few wild looking Mexicans prowling about to give a touch of life.”
Hard pointed toward the mine. Some dark-skinned men wearing big straw sombreros were running a hand car up the track while another group lounged in a doorway.
“There are your Mexicans, but I’m afraid they’re too lazy to be very wild. Nothing but a revolution excites them these days and sometimes I think they’re getting a bit blasé over them. Now and then they wake up over a cock-fight.” They walked down the street toward the boarding-house.
“I wish, Mr. Hard, that you would tell me something about the young man who drove me over last night,” the girl said.
“Who? Scotty?”
“No,” a little indignantly. “I mean Señor Pachuca. Oh, I forgot that I hadn’t told you!”
“Scott told me. He and I thought, if you don’t mind, that we wouldn’t say anything about it before the others. I mean about his being in the neighborhood.”
“I won’t if you don’t want me to,” replied Polly, with unusual docility. “But please tell me about him. Mr. Scott didn’t seem to want to.”
“Well, no, Scotty didn’t want to frighten you, I suppose.”