“You can say anything you want, sweetheart,” said Cheerio. “Whatever you say will sound just right to me—dearest old girl.”
It occurred to Hilda that he possessed a most wonderful and extensive vocabulary. She had never heard such terms before, and when she had read them Hilda had felt embarrassed, and in her rough way had thought: “Oh, slush!”
But somehow the words had an almost lyrical sound when uttered by the infatuated Cheerio.
They were brought back to life by the yipping, jeering Sandy.
“Gee! I believe you two’s struck on each other!”
He reined up beside them and examined the telltale faces with all a boy’s cunning and disgusted amusement.
“Say, are you goin’ to git married?”
“You better believe we are!” laughed Cheerio, falling easily into the slang of the country.
“Holy Salmon! Well, there’s no accountin’ for tastes,” said Hilda’s young brother, with disparagement. Then resignedly: “But, I betchu Dad’ll be tickled. He’ll have a life partner for chess. Gee! Here’s where I escape!”
He kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks and with the grace and agility of a circus rider, with neither saddle nor bridle merely a halter—Sandy was off. He turned bodily around in his seat on the running horse’s back to yell back at them as he rode, hand to mouth: