There was an emphasis on the last words which Burton had not fathomed when a chestnut horse swung up beside the wagon, and a young girl, as brown and lithe as her beautiful mount, brought her gauntletted hand down with a resounding smack on Mr. McKay’s shoulder.
“Ho, Dad,” she cried, “you’re a sight for the angels.”
“Yep,” assented the old man, “fer my angel, Ah reckon that’s right.”
“I declare,” laughed the girl, “how you do learn those cunning speeches when you go to town! Tell me, now, who taught you that?”
“You’re gettin’ a bigger tease than ever, Kid. Tell me, how’s ever’thing goin’ on the farm?”
“Oh, that’s too big an order. I know I have been all right—fine—fit. But say, Dad, haven’t you forgotten something?”
“Waal, that might be, easy enough,” said the farmer, looking back and surveying the heavy load. “There’s the binder twine and the groceries and machine oil an’ the mail——”
“Dad, you’re a chump. Here you let me live in the wilderness, with nothing more exciting than bronchoes and mustangs, and when a real live—possibility—comes along you—you won’t even introduce me!” The sentence ended in a burst of mimic sobbing.
“Waal, by hang, one does sorta ferget his sassiety manners, usin’ ’em so little. This is my daughter Kid——”
“Not Kid!” exclaimed the girl. “Kath——”