While she went about her work, sedulously keeping her gaze from Latisan, she heard the men jocosely canvassing the matter. They called to the drive master, giving him clumsy congratulation. There were timber cruisers who were going into the north country; they declared with hilarity that they would spread the news. They ate and went stamping away, news bureaus afoot.
She marched to the pathetic incarnation of doubt and dolor after a time; he was lingering at table in a condition that was near to stupefaction.
“Why aren’t you on your way?” she demanded, with ireful impatience.
“You’ll have to tell me what the matter is with you!”
“I’ll tell you nothing—not now! But you have something to tell Mr. Flagg, haven’t you?”
“You’re right! I’ll go and tell him that I’m starting for the drive. If I have to smash the hinges off the door of Tophet I’ll put our logs——”
“That’s it!” she cried, eagerly. “Our logs! We’ll call them our logs. Don’t mind because I seemed strange a little while ago. You’ll understand, some day. But now hurry! Hurry!” She forced herself to smile. She was eagerly in earnest, almost hysterical. She spoke his name, though with effort. “Remember, Ward! Our logs! Bring them through!”
He leaped out of his chair. The other breakfasters were gone. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.
Immediately after Latisan had left on his way to assure Echford Flagg, the girl was reminded of her putative Vose-Mern affiliations. Crowley lounged back into the room, taking advantage of the fact that she was alone. “Put me wise as to why you’re playing this shot with the reverse English.”
“Hands off, Crowley! You’re only a watchdog, paid to guard me.”