“Say,” he went on presently, “you never felt so that your head would burst, so that the only thing worth while doin’ would be to kill some one?” He smiled. “That’s how I feel, when I know Beasley’s been talkin’ to you.”
Joan turned to him with a responsive smile. She was glad he was talking again. A strange discomfort, a nervousness not altogether unpleasant had somehow taken hold of her, and the sound of his voice relieved her.
She shook her head.
“No,” she said frankly. “I—don’t think I ever feel that way. But I don’t like Beasley.”
Buck’s heat had passed. He laughed.
“That was sure a fool question to ask,” he said. “Say, it ’ud be like askin’ a dove to get busy with a gun.”
“I’ve heard doves are by no means the gentle creatures popular belief would have them.”
“Guess ther’s doves—an’ doves,” Buck said enigmatically. “I can’t jest see you bustin’ to hurt a fly.”
“Not even Beasley?”