There was a moment’s pause which might have been hours, it seemed so horribly long to the waiting man. He became dimly aware of a sudden hardening in Birdie’s eyes, a mounting flush to her cheeks and forehead, a sudden, astounding physical movement, and then the work-worn palm of her hand came into contact with his cheek with such force as to prove the value to her physical development of the strenuous labors which were hers.
He never thought a woman’s hand could sting so much. He never thought that he could be made to feel so mean as this girl’s sudden vehemence made him feel.
“How dare you, you bumming remittance feller?” she cried, with eyes blazing and bosom heaving. “How dare you––you––you––” And then she further punished him with that worst of all feminine punishments––she burst into tears.
The next few moments were never quite clear to the distracted and unthinking Toby. He never really knew what actually happened. He had a confused memory of saying things by way of apology, of making several pacific overtures, which met with physical rebuffs of no mean order, and tearful upbraidings which were so mixed up with choking sniffs as to be fortunately more or less unintelligible. Finally, when he came to his ordinary senses, and the dead level of his understanding was fully restored, he found himself grasping the girl firmly by the waist, her golden head lying snugly on his massive shoulder, and with a distinct recollection of warm ripe lips many times pressed upon his own. All of which was eminently pleasing.
When once these comfortable relations were thoroughly established, he had no difficulty in clearing the clouds from her horizon, and relegating her tears into the background. Her nature was of a much too smiling order to need a great deal of coaxing. But explanation was needed, and explanation never came easily to this stalwart dullard.
“Y’see, what I meant was,” he said, with a troubled frown of intense concentration, “maybe you know about kids. I didn’t mean offense, I sure didn’t. Everybody knows our Birdie to be jest a straight, up-standin’, proper gal, who wouldn’t hurt nobody, nor nuthin’, ’cep’ it was a buzzin’ fly around the supper hash. No feller don’t take no account o’ her bein’ a pot-wallopin’, hash-slingin’ mutton rustler. It sure ain’t no worse than ladlin’ swill to prize hogs. It’s jest in the way o’ business. ’Sides, she don’t need to care what no fellers thinks. She ain’t stuck on men-folk wuth a cent.”
“That I sure ain’t,” asserted a smothered voice from the bosom of his dirty shirt.
“That you ain’t,” he reassured her. “You’re jest a dandy gal as ’ud make any feller with a good patch o’ pay dirt a real elegant sort o’ wife.”
The golden head snuggled closer into his shirt.
“You ain’t got no patch o’ pay dirt, Toby?” she inquired.