"Honest? Well, you'd sure make a good pardner." Pete eyed the girl with a new interest. Then he shook his head. "I—you'd sure make a good pardner—but it would be mighty tough for you. I'd do most anything—but that. You see, Chicita, I'm in bad. I'm like to get mine most any time. And I ain't no ladies' man—nohow."
"But you will come back?" queried Boca anxiously.
"As sure as you're livin'! Only you want to kind o' eddicate your ole man to handle bottles more easy-like. He ought to know what they're made for."
"Your head—it is cool," said Boca, reaching up and touching Pete's forehead.
"Oh, I'm feelin' fine, considerin'."
"Then I am happy," said Boca.
Pete never knew just how he happened to find Boca's hand in his own. But he knew that she had a very pretty mouth, and fine eyes; eyes that glowed softly in the dusk. Before he realized what had happened, Boca was in his arms, and he was telling her again and again that "he sure would come back."
She murmured her happiness as he kissed her awkwardly, and quickly, as though bidding her a hasty farewell. But she would not let him go with that. "Mi amor! Mi corazone!" she whispered, as she clasped her hands behind his head and gently drew his mouth to hers.
Pete felt embarrassed, but his embarrassment melted in the soft warmth of her affection and he returned her kisses with all the ardor of youth. Suddenly she pushed him away and rose. Her mother had called her.
"About twelve," whispered Pete. "Tell your ole man I'll bush out here. It's a heap cooler."