This questioning might bear interpretation as the outburst of one who resented the overseer’s presence; but Jake was ready with the soft answer which turneth away wrath:
“No, sir. Not exactly, that is. I was jest waitin’ fur Mac. He allowed he’d be back about this time. Gosh! Here he is, crossin’ the divide, an’ totin’ along some tony galoot I hain’t seen afore.”
“Tell MacGonigal, and every other person in the place, that I am not to be disturbed.”
Power withdrew from the French window, and Jake nodded to the group of horses.
“You’re feelin’ pretty bad, I guess,” he said to himself. “But thar ain’t a gun in the outfit outside my locked grip, an’ you cahn’t find enough rope ter hang a cat, an’ the only pisen in the ranch is on a sideboard, an’ a skinful of that would do you good, an’ this yer son of a gun can stand a lot o’ black looks from you, Derry.”
He heard Power sink into a chair on the inner side of the room, and sheer curiosity led him to steal along the veranda to the porch, where MacGonigal and a stranger were alighting from a two-wheeled buggy.
“Derry’s jest tole me ter quit,” he said in a stage whisper, jerking his left hand, as though it still possessed a thumb, in the direction of the library.
The newcomer, a tall, well-built man of middle age, smiled involuntarily at the queer gesture. As it happened, he had never before seen a veritable cowboy outside the bounds of one or other of the American circus shows which visit Europe occasionally, and Jake had donned his costliest rig for the funeral.
“Shall I find Mr. Power in that room with the open window?” he inquired.
“Yes, sir,” said Jake.