“What’s wrong, dear?” she asked. “Still sore from all that dreadful horseback riding?”
“It’s that girl,” he told her; “that Shirley of ours. She’s the one I’m worried about.”
“Why, goodness gracious!” she cried; “what’s wrong with Shirley?”
“Look at her. That’s all I ask—just look at her.”
Mrs. Gatling, who was slightly near-sighted in more ways than one, squinted at the withdrawing figure.
“Why, the child never seemed happier or healthier in her life,” she protested, still peering. “Why, only last Monday—or was it Tuesday; no, Monday—I remember distinctly now it was Monday because that was the day we got caught in the snow-storm coming through Swift Current Pass—only last Monday you were saying yourself how well and rosy she was looking.”
“I don’t mean that—she’s a bunch of limber young whalebones. Look where she’s going! That’s what I mean. Look what she’s doing!”
“Why, what is she doing that’s out of the way, I’d like to know?” demanded his puzzled wife, now jealously on the defensive for her young.
“She’s doing what she’s been doing every chance she got these last four-five days, that’s what.” Mr. Gatling was manifesting an attitude somewhat common in husbands and fathers when dealing with their domestic problems. He preferably would flank the subject rather than bore straight at it, hoping by these round-about tactics to obtain confirmation for his suspicions before he ever voiced them. “Got eyes in your head, haven’t you? All right then, use ’em.”