She raised her face, transfigured through the tears.
“Then, win or lose—”
“Win or lose, if you desire it and I can scrape together the price of a marriage license, we'll be married in six weeks.
“I'm so tired of the desert, dear. I'm lonely.”
“A little like Br'er B'ar, eh, darling! You want to see the other side of the mountain.” He pressed her to him lovingly. “Of course” (with masculine inconsistency Bob was beginning to equivocate) “I may not be able to sell my water-right and the enemy may elect to play a waiting game and starve me out. In that case, it would not be fair to you to burden you with a husband whose sole assets are his dreams and his hopes.”
“That makes no difference” she exclaimed passionately. “We're young. We'll fight the rest of the battle together.”
“Well, there's strength in numbers, at any rate, beloved. You're my mascot and I'm bound to win.” He placed his left hand under her chin and tilted her face upward. He was stooping to seal their compact with a true lover's kiss, when the sound of footsteps startled them. Both turned guiltily, to confront Mr. Harley P. Hennage.
“Hah-hah,” puffed Mr. Hennage, “at it again, eh?” He stood at the corner of the house, with his three gold teeth flashing in the moonlight.
“Kill-joy!” hissed Bob McGraw. “His Royal Highness, Kill-joy the Thirteenth!”
Harley P. shook a fat forefinger at the lovers. “If I was a young feller, Bob McGraw—”