“Good-evening,” she said, her attitude mechanically unbending.
“Evenin’, miss,” responded Ike bravely, and then relapsed into a violent condition of blushing through his dirt.
He stood there paralyzed at the girl’s beauty. He just gaped foolishly at her, his eyes seeking refuge in dwelling upon the well-cut skirt she wore and the perfect whiteness of the lawn shirt-waist, which permitted the delicate pink tinge of her arms and shoulders to show through it.
All his bravery was gone—all his assurance. If his life had depended on it not one word of an address on behalf of his fellows could he have uttered.
Joan saw his confusion, and mercifully came to his rescue.
“You wish to see me?” she inquired, with a smile which plunged the boy into even more hopeless confusion.
As no answer was forthcoming she looked appealingly at the other faces.
“It’s very kind of you all to come here,” she said gently. “Is—is there anything I can—do for you?”
Suddenly Beasley’s voice made itself heard.
“Git busy, Ike, you’re spokesman,” he cried. “Git on with the presentation—ladle out the ad—dress. You’re kind o’ lookin’ foolish.”