"You're the most refreshing old simpleton I ever knew," she said. "But I'll take your money—for the church," she added, as though endeavoring to quiet her conscience.
Dave sighed in relief.
"Well, that's that. Now we come to the friendly side of my visit," he said. "I've got a heap to say to you. Jim Truscott's been to me."
He made his statement simply, and waited. But no comment was forthcoming. Betty was stooping over a box, collecting cards to place on the articles on her stall. Presently she looked up, and her look was an invitation for him to go on.
The man's task was not easy. It would have been easy enough had he not spoken with Checks outside, but now it was all different. He had promised his help, but in giving it he had no clear conscience.
He propped himself against the side-post of her stall, and his weight set the structure shaking perilously.
"I've often wondered, Betty," he said, in a rumbling, confidential tone, "if there ever was a man, or for that matter a woman, who really understood human nature. We all think we know a lot about it. We size up a man, and we reckon he's good, bad, or indifferent, and if our estimate happens to prove, we pat ourselves, and hold our heads a shade higher, and feel sorry for those who can't read a man as easy as we can."
Betty nodded while she stuck some "Sold" cards about her stall.
"A locomotive's a great proposition, so long as it's on a set track. It's an all-fired nuisance without. Guess a locomotive can do everything it shouldn't when it gets loose of its track. My word, I'd hate to be around with a loco up to its fool-tricks, running loose in a city. Seems to me that's how it is with human nature."
Betty's brown eyes were thoughtfully contemplating the man's ugly features.