Harry's face fell.
"Do you—love—some other man?" he asked.
"Yes—a regular man—mustache, six feet tall and everything. I just tell you he's purty!"
"Is it that rich feller from St. Louis?" he asked.
She nodded and then whispered: "Don't you tell."
The boy's lips trembled when he answered. "I won't tell. But I don't see how you can do it."
"Why?"
"He drinks and he keeps slaves and beats them with a bull whip. He isn't respectable."
"That's a lie," she answered quickly. "I don't care what you say."
Bim touched her pony with the whip and rode away.