The air is like ethereal champagne in Virginia City, and on a late summer's evening, after the sun's honeyed freshness has been strained through miles of it, it has a quality that makes playing outdoors intoxicating.
Split, though, had not been playing. There was business on hand and she had been downtown to buy eggs for the picnic, with the usual result. She had never yet succeeded in bringing home an unbroken dozen, nor did she ever hope to; but she was really out of temper at the extraordinary dampness of the paper bag, to which her two hands adhered stickily. She walked slowly upward, holding the eggs far in front of her like a votive offering to the culinary gods, unconscious of the betraying yellow streaks that beaded her blue gingham apron.
"Where you been, Split?" asked Cody, by way of an easy opening.
"Down to the grocery. Mrs. Pemberton's not laying decently these days."
"Mrs. Pemberton!"
"Sissy's gray hen, you know. Sissy called her that 's got only one chicken, and bosses him for all the world like Crosby."
Cody nodded. "What time you going to start in the morning? Six?"
"Uh-huh." Split dared not lift her eyes from the sticky trail that exuded from her.
"Sure?" the boy demanded.
"Sure—if only father don't keep us so long to-night that we can't get ready. We've got to be martyred to-night," she added gloomily.