“Don’t you see his long, silky black mustache? And his long hair and broad hat? Goodness! he’s a picture.”
“Yes. The stage picture of a villain—Simon Legree type,” scoffed Dorothy. “That red silk handkerchief sticking out of his pocket—and the big diamond in his shirt front—and another flashing on his finger——”
“My!” gasped Tavia, clasping her hands. “He might have stepped right out of Bret Harte. Ah-ha! ah-ha! Jack Dalton! unhand me!”
“Hush, Tavia!” begged her chum. “He will hear you.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Tavia, suddenly disturbed. “He’s looking at us—and he’s crossing over to this side of the road.”
“Well, don’t you look at him any more and—we’ll cross the road, too.”
“Do you suppose he eats little girls?” queried Tavia, with a most ridiculous air.
Dorothy felt as though she wanted to shake her chum. But then, she frequently felt that desire. The man was too near for her to speak again, but the girls crossed the road suddenly.
The man stopped, half turned as though to approach them, and leered at Dorothy and Tavia. He was not a large man, but he was remarkably dressed. His black suit was rather wrinkled, as though he had been traveling some time in it. The broad-brimmed hat gave him the air of a Westerner, or Southerner. And his flashy appearance made him very distasteful to Dorothy.
She made Tavia hurry on, and soon they reached the bridge themselves. Tavia was “raving” again: