“Kin that be Nicholas?” came the voice of Pizen Kate.
“Don’t come too nigh me, Kate, er you’ll ketch afire.”
“Is that reely you, Nicholas?”
“Waal, it ain’t nothin’ but me, with a little fire paint added. Better be cautious about how you come too nigh me, though; you might ketch yer dress afire.”
She came forward, just the same. “Nicholas,” she declared, as she climbed with apparent painfulness to the top of the hill, “this here is the fu’st and only time that I’ve ever been proud o’ ye sense the day we was married. But you aire a sight! What ye got on yer?”
“Waal, mebbe I’d better hide my fiery anatermy,” he admitted. Forthwith he put on his coat; and with his handkerchief he wiped the greasy phosphorescent paint from his face.
“Where was Moses when the light went out?” he asked, and cackled again.
John Latimer seemed no less surprised than Pizen Kate. He was puffing heavily, for the sharp run had been almost too much for him.
“Mr. Nomad,” he said respectfully, “you are certainly a wonder. When I employed you to take care of my live stock and also do other work on the place, I didn’t dream that I had met such a genius.”
“I’m that smart,” said Nomad, with another cackle, “that it plum’ hurts me at times.”