“I didn’t think Dave would have anything to do with him after what happened. What is he coming for?”
“Dave writ that he and Bascomb had jined forces—said he’d explain when he comes. I reckon it’s all right, seein’ as it is Dave; howcome I’m kind of tired worryin’ ’bout the whole dinged business, but I gave my word to Dave and I’m going to stick to it.”
“Of course you are, Pop. Dave would be disappointed if anything went wrong now.”
“Thet’s it. I ain’t forgettin’ what Dave Ross done fur you when he fust come here; not sayin’ thet thet makes all the diff’runce. Dave’s purty good leather at most anything he tackles.”
Swickey made no comment and the old man arose and walked to the door.
“Guess I’ll jog down to the dam and see what’s doin’. Thet’ll give you a spell to ketch your breath ag’in.”
“All right, Pop.”
Swickey sat gazing out of the window. She was thinking of a summer midnight some three years ago, when a very frightened, barefooted little girl had tapped on a cabin window to waken the Dave whom she scarcely knew then—and of his patience and gravity when she asked him to purchase the book and the “specs” for Pop. “He didn’t really laugh once,” she thought, and her heart warmed toward the absent David as she pictured him traveling once more to Lost Farm, eager, as his letters had stated, “to see her and her father again more than any one else in the world.” How well she remembered his keen, steady glance; his grave lips that smiled so unexpectedly at times; even the set of his shoulders and the vigorous swing of his stride.
She stepped to the glass and surveyed her face with an expression of approval. She drew quickly back, however, as the crunch of calked boots sounded on the porch.
“One of the men to see Pop,” she thought, and went to the door. “Oh, it’s you!”