CHAPTER III
WHO WAS THE THIEF?
Paul called for Kirke on the following Saturday, long before breakfast-time. He had driven in from the ranch in Mr. Keith’s two-seated wagon, drawn by a pair of little brown mules, and was evidently in a prodigious hurry.
“Hello, Selkirk!” he shouted to the side of the house. “Stir around lively. Mr. Keith wants Sing Wung to get to work on the well early.”
“I’ll be there in two seconds,” returned Kirke, thrusting a tumbled head through an open window. “All dressed but my hair.”
“Good! Can’t you eat your breakfast on the road?”
“To be sure. I can eat anywhere, everywhere.”
The tumbled head disappeared; and Paul began to munch a buttered roll just brought him by his sister Pauline. Their home was just across the street, and she had watched for Paul, and rushed out to meet him, and now stood leaning against the front wheel of the wagon, chatting with him. She was a warm-hearted, impulsive girl, rather too heedless and outspoken at times. She had no mother to guide her, and lacked the gentle manners of her friend, Molly Rowe.
“You ought to put on your hat, Polly. You’re getting as brown as a Mexican,” remarked Paul, with brotherly frankness, as he attacked a second roll.
“Black, you should say,” corrected she coolly. “I’ve noticed it myself. You’re an albino. I’m a negress. I’ve no manner of doubt people call us ‘the black and white twins.’”
“What about Shot, Paul? Has he been heard from?” called Molly from behind the window-shade of her chamber.