"You're right, mam," he exclaimed, with almost unnecessary eagerness. "It is man's work—not woman's." He looked her straight in the eyes, and Monica accepted the challenge.
"You mean I am not the fit person to step into your shoes," she said, with a smile.
Her smile in no way disconcerted the other. He returned her look, while his hard mouth twisted in its wry fashion.
"P'raps I was thinking that; p'raps I was thinking of something else. I'll not say you can't run this show. But I'll say a woman oughtn't to."
"And why not?"
Monica's demand came sharply, but even while she made it she realized the man's hard, muscular figure as he sat there in his saddle, with his thin shirt open at his bronzed neck, and the cords of muscle standing out on his spare, bare arms. She understood her own bodily weakness compared to his strength, and acknowledged to herself the justice of his assertion.
"Do you need to ask, mam?" Angus retorted, with just a suspicion of contempt. "Could you handle these guys when they get on the buck? Could you talk to 'em? Could you talk to 'em the way they understand?"
Monica's eyes flashed.
"I think so."
"Then you're thinking ten times wrong, mam," came the manager's prompt and emphatic retort. "You'll have hell all around you in a day."