“No, bossie, me no see Miss Hilda. Mebbe she like go see him blandie” (brand).
“Beat it over to the corral and tell her I want her—at once—at once!”
“Hilda! Hil-l-lda!”
He made a trumpet of his hands and roared his daughter’s name through it.
“Hil-lda! Where in the name of the almighty maker of mankind is that girl! Hilda!”
Yanks indeed! Dog damn their souls! Their smug satisfaction with themselves; their genius for bragging and boasting; their ignorance concerning any other part of the earth save the sod on which their own land stood—their colossal self-esteem and intolerance—all this was evidence of an amazing racial provincialism that P. D. proposed to expose and damn forevermore.
“Hilda! Damn it all, where are you?”
“Hilda! You hear me very well, miss!”
Tramp, tramp, tramp. Round and round the house, inside and out, hands twitching behind, holding still to that precious letter.
“Sandy! Sandy! Sa-nn-n-ndy! Where’s that boy gone?”