Duly arriving at the ranch, he dropped his lines, and leisurely sauntering up to the familiar dwelling where he perceived the owner and his wife sitting in the shade of the veranda, he hailed them cheerily.
Trainor looked up at the other’s approach and, lowering the paper that he was reading, nodded to him nonchalantly; his spouse gave no salutation whatever, and appeared engrossed in her sewing.
Ellis halted irresolutely, sensing something strange and apathetic in the manner in which he was received—something distant, as it were—and he became slowly conscious of a presentiment that his forebodings had not been without reason, and that all was not well as heretofore, when their usual welcome had been so genuine and unrestrained. With a feeling of vague uneasiness at his heart, he regarded them blankly a moment or two, glancing from one to the other inquiringly; then he said:
“Is anything the matter? What’s wrong?”
Trainor fidgeted nervously in his chair awhile, and then raising his self-conscious eyes to the level of his questioner’s breast, blurted out:
“Well, you see, Benton, it’s like this ... er—”
But words seemed to fail him, and he left the sentence unfinished, relapsing into silence and gazing miserably at his wife, as if seeking her assistance in his explanation. The latter, now for the first time, raised her head and, gravely contemplating the troubled, anxious face of the Sergeant, addressed her husband.
“Best tell him, Dave,” she said, with an inflection of slightly frigid hostility in her tones. “If you won’t, I will!”
Thus adjured, Trainor coughed awkwardly and began afresh:
“Well, now, see here; look! I’ll tell you, Sergeant. It’s about that girl, Mary—Miss O’Malley, I mean. You know how I and Mrs. Trainor love and regard that girl? ... known her since she was a little kiddie, and think as much of her as we do of our own children—”