“She’s alive, anyway,” he said. “Sort o’ stunned. Mebbe it’s the lightnin’.”
Pete turned, a withering glance upon his foxy face.
“Lightnin’ nuthin’,” he cried scornfully. “If she’d bin hit she’d ha’ bin black an’ dead. Why, she—she ain’t even brown. She’s white as white.” His voice became softer, and he was no longer addressing the ex-Churchman. “Did y’ ever see sech skin—so soft an’ white? An’ that ha’r, my word! I’d gamble a dollar her eyes is blue—ef she’d jest open ’em.”
He reached out a great dirty hand to touch the beautiful whiteness of the girl’s throat with a caressing movement, but instantly Buck’s voice, sharp and commanding, stayed his action.
“Quit that!” he cried. “Ke’p your durned hands to yourself,” he added, with a strange hoarseness.
Pete’s eyes lit angrily.
“Eh? What’s amiss?” he demanded. “Guess I ain’t no disease.”
Beasley chuckled across at him, and the sound of his mirth infuriated Buck. He understood the laugh and the meaning underlying it.
“Buck turned wet nurse,” cried the ex-Churchman, as he beheld the sudden flush on the youngster’s face.
“You can ke’p your durned talk,” Buck cried. “You Beasley—and the lot of you,” he went on recklessly. “She’s no ord’nary gal; she’s—she’s a lady.”