“Who told you, lad?” I queried, being used to Joey’s terse and unexpected utterances.
My wonder woman looked at him sharply. Her black brows came together as she surveyed him, and she did not smile. Joey stared and stared at her, until I thought he never would have done, and she continued to scrutinize him. I saw her eyes wander over his attire. Poor lad—his collection of wearing apparel was motley enough—an old hunting coat of mine that almost covered him, a pair of trousers unmistakably cut over, a straw hat that was set down so far on his brown head that his ears had perforce to bear the weight; a faded shirt, and scuffed out shoes. But Joey’s scrutiny was more persistent than the one accorded him, and presently, my wonder woman was tricked into speech.
“Well?” she murmured, her lips relaxing.
Joey gave a great sigh, kicked up his heels like a fractious colt, and rolled over among the shavings. “Gracious Lord!” was his comment, delivered in awed tones.
“Joey!” I gasped, turning. But Joey was slipping, feet first, through the window. I caught him by the trousers and gave him a surreptitious shake, as I lowered him wriggling to the ground. He rolled over, rose to his knees; his brown eyes, big and soft, looked up at me affectionately; his lips parted in a grin of understanding.
“I’ll put the potatoes on, Mr. David,” he vouchsafed, and vanished.
The beautiful face was questioning when I turned back. “Mr. David,” she repeated. “He is not your boy then?”
I hesitated. “No,” I said slowly. Somehow, I was in no mood to tell her Joey’s story at that moment.
“Joey has the manners of a young Indian,” I apologized. “I hope he did not annoy you.”
“Children never annoy me,” she replied.