“Oh, I see!” His voice was paternally gentle. “Well, I’ll try to get one like that.”
“And a pair of ‘specs’”—she hesitated as his white, even teeth gleamed in the moonlight—“fur Pop,” she added hurriedly.
“All right, Swickey, but I—”
“His’n don’t work right.”
“But I don’t just know what kind of ‘specs’ your father needs. There are lots of different kinds, you know.”
Her heart fell. So this man with “larnin’”—his man who could fight Fisty Harrigans and make dead kittens come alive and jump right up, didn’t know about “specs.” Why, her Pop knew all about them. He had said his didn’t work right.
The troubled look quickly vanished from her face, however, as a tremendous inspiration lifted her over this unexpected difficulty.
“Git ‘specs,’” she whispered eagerly, “what Pop kin skin a b’ar with ’thout cuttin’ his hand.” There! what more was necessary except the other silver piece, which she handed to David with trembling fingers as he assured her he would get “just that kind.” In her excitement the coin slipped and fell jingling to the cabin floor.
“I—beg—your—pardon.”
She had heard David say that and had memorized it that afternoon in the seclusion of the empty kitchen, with Beelzebub as the indifferent object of her apology. She cherished the speech as a treasure of “larnin’” to be used at the first opportunity. Ross missed the significance of her politeness, although he appreciated it as something unusual under the circumstances.