“Ye-es?” murmured Ashton, his ardent eyes on the girl. “Miss––er––Chuckie, it is superfluous to remark that I shall vastly enjoy a cross-country ride with you.”
“Oh, really!” she replied.
Heedless of her ironical tone, he turned a supercilious glance on Knowles. “Yes, and at the same time your papa and his hired man can take advantage of the opportunity to deliver my veal.”
“What’s that?” growled the cowman, flushing hotly.
But the girl burst into such a peal of laughter that his scowl relaxed to an uncertain smile.
“Well, what’s the joke, honey?” he asked.
“Oh! oh! oh!” she cried, her blue eyes glistening 18 with mirthful tears. “Don’t you see he’s got you, Daddy? You didn’t sell him his meat on the hoof. You’ve got to dress and deliver his cutlets.”
“By––James!” vowed Gowan. “Before I’ll butcher for such a knock-kneed tenderfoot I’ll see him, in––”
“Hold your hawsses, Kid,” put in Knowles. “The joke’s on me. You go on and look for that bunch of strays, if you want to. But I’m not going to back up when Chuckie says I’m roped in.”
Gowan looked fixedly at Ashton and the girl, swore under his breath, and swung to the ground. He came down beside the calf with the waddling step of one who has lived in the saddle from early childhood. Knowles joined him, and they set to work on the calf without paying any farther heed to the tenderfoot.