Mr. Ogilvy's eyes popped with interest. “Oh,” he breathed. “You have an eye to the main chance yourself have you? Have you proposed to the lady as yet?”
“No, you idiot.”
“Then I'll match you for her—or rather for the chance to propose first.” Buck produced a dollar and spun it in the air.
“Nothing doing, Buck. Spare yourself these agonizing suspicions. The fact of the matter is that you give me a wonderful inspiration. I've always been afraid Moira would fall in love with some ordinary fellow around Sequoia—propinquity, you know—”
“You bet. Propinquity's the stuff. I'll stick around.”
“—and I we been on the lookout for a fine man to marry her off to. She's too wonderful for you, Buck, but in time you might learn to live up to her.”
“Duck! I'm liable to kiss you.”
“Don't be too precipitate. Her father used to be our woods-boss. I fired him for boozing.”
“I wouldn't care two hoots if her dad was old Nick himself. I'm going to marry her—if she'll have me. Ah, the glorious creature!” He waved his long arms despairingly. “O Lord, send me a cure for freckles. Bryce, you'll speak a kind word for me, won't you—sort of boom my stock, eh? Be a good fellow.”
“Certainly. Now come down to earth and render a report on your stewardship.”