“No, that stupid Scottie.” This was her name for the immovable Robbie.
“Not he, I'm afraid. Of course Bill was just bluffing him. But it was good sport.”
“Oh, lovely! I knew he'd do something.”
“Who? Scottie?” I asked, for her pronouns were perplexing.
“No!” she cried, “Bill! He promised he would, you know,” she added.
“So you were at the bottom of it?” I said, amazed.
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” she kept crying, shrieking with laughter over Bill's cherishing opinions and desires. “I shall be ill. Dear old Bill. He said he'd 'try to get a move on to him.'”
Before I left that day, Bill himself came to the Old Timer's ranch, inquiring in a casual way “if the 'boss' was in.”
“Oh, Bill!” called out Gwen, “come in here at once; I want you.”
After some delay and some shuffling with hat and spurs, Bill lounged in and set his lank form upon the extreme end of a bench at the door, trying to look unconcerned as he remarked: “Gittin' cold. Shouldn't wonder if we'd have a little snow.”