“U-huh. I knowed it. Wimmen-folks don’t fancy red hair as a giniral thing, do they?”
“Depends on the man what’s wearin’ it. Had red hair m’self when I were a colt. Don’t jest rec’llect any females jumpin’ fences when I come by.”
“Your’n’s white now,” said Smeaton, with a shade of envy in his pale blue eyes.
“What they is of it. But what you drivin’ at?”
Smeaton flushed and blinked uneasily. “Oh, nothin’—’cept I was thinkin’ when I got this here hind leg so she’d go ag’in, mebby I’d kind of settle down and quit lumberin’ and farm it. Have a place of my own.”
“What’s her name?” said Avery, quite seriously.
“Huh!” Smeaton’s eyes glared in astonishment. “I ain’t said nothin’ ’bout gettin’ married, Hoss.”
“’Course you ain’t. Nuther have I.” Avery’s beard twitched.
“Now, if a feller was thinkin’ of gettin’ married to a gal,” continued Smeaton, “do you reckon she’d think he was gettin’ kind of old, if he was, say, thutty-five?”
“Thet’s suthin’ like the red hair, Joe. Depends mostly on the man. I was older’n thet when I got married.—But I got to mix them biscuits. A’ter supper I’m willin’ to listen to the rest of it.”