He walked through into the kitchen and drank a dipperful of water thirstily, before he answered. Returning, he grinned significantly at his hostess.
“All right, let it go at that, Mrs. Trainor,” he replied. “Here, Gwyn!” he continued, slewing around and catching hold of that little blonde seven-year-old fairy, “where’s Miss O’Malley?”
“Shan’t tell you!” came the mutinous giggle.
“Oh, yes, you will,” he said, tickling her. “Come on, now; you tell, or I’ll—I’ll take you out and put you right on top of the barn for that big sparrow-hawk to come and get! He likes little girls like you. One! Two!—are you going to tell me—?”
“Yes, yes!” came the smothered squawk. “Pu-put me down, though. She—she’s drying her hair in the sun back of the house,” she whispered gravely.
“Is she? Well, you go and tell her I want her,” he whispered back. “Run like anything.”
“Oh, she’ll come quick enough when she knows you’ve got Johnny for her to ride,” remarked Trainor, smiling. “She won’t look at that Pedro horse of mine so long as he’s around. Say!” he broke off. “Bert’s sure getting to be some marksman, ain’t he? He’ll be running you pretty close when he gets older, Sergeant. Look at that, now!”
These remarks were occasioned by the entrance of a sturdy youngster of nine, who was proudly dangling the carcasses of half a dozen fat gophers.
“No, no, Bert! You mustn’t bring them in here!” cried his mother sharply. “Take them outside and give them to Tom and Jerry!”
Hugging a small “twenty-two” rifle and his dead gophers, the boy gave a roguish grin at Ellis and departed, followed by two huge mewing tomcats.