On Saturday evening Dick again reverted to the subject.
“I'm not anxious, Barney,” he said, “but who's going to take the meeting to-morrow night at Bull Crossing?”
“Now, look here,” said Barney, “Monday morning you'll hear all about it. Meantime, don't ask questions. Margaret and I are responsible, and that ought to be enough. You never knew her to fail.”
“No, nor you, Barney,” said Dick, sinking back with a sigh of satisfaction. “I know it will be all right. Are you going down to-morrow evening?” he inquired, turning to Margaret.
“I?” exclaimed Margaret. “What would I do?”
“Of course you are going. It will do you a lot of good,” said Barney. “You may have to preach yourself or hold my coat while I go in.”
A sudden gleam of joy in the eyes, a flush of red upon the cheek, and the quick following pallor told Dick the thoughts that rushed through Margaret's heart.
“Yes,” said Dick gravely, “you will go down, too, Margaret. It will do you good, and I don't need you here.”
Many anxious days had Barney passed in his life, but never had he found himself so utterly blocked by unmanageable circumstances and uncompromising facts as he found facing him that Sunday morning. He confided his difficulty to Tommy Tate, whom he had found in “Mexico's” saloon toning up his system after his long illness, and whom he had straightway carried off with him.
“I guess it's either you or me, Tommy.”