"Ankle still hurtin' you some, mebbe?" pursued Gideon.
"Ankle's gettin' along all right," Kiddie assured him. "Guess it'll soon be's well's ever. Shall we have tea? Rube'll get it ready."
Gideon did not respond to the invitation.
"Buildin's progressin' all s'rene," he observed. "I like this yer room. It's real homesome; and the view fr'm your front windows and the veranda's real elegant. Time you gets a collection o' choice flowers in your door-yard, you'll have 'bout the most desirable residence in the hull state of Wyoming. Ain't you satisfied? What's the matter?"
"I'm just some worr'ed, Gid," Kiddie answered, flinging a leg over the arm of his chair.
"My!" exclaimed Gideon. "What in creation 've you gotter worry about?"
"Just the cabin," Kiddie answered dreamily. "Just the cabin and my living in it all lonesome; enjoyin' it—enjoyin' it too much. It's just what I've wanted. Everything's all as I planned. But I've bin thinkin', Gideon; thinking hard."
"That ain't a new experience fer you, Kiddie," said Gid. "You was allus' a deep thinker. Guess it's the Injun blood in you assertin' itself. An' what's the matter wi' the cabin ter make you meditate an' worry?"
"Why," Kiddie responded slowly, keeping his Western manner of speech, as was usual with him when addressing Gideon Birkenshaw, "I've come to the conclusion as it ain't just right an' proper o' me ter live here with everything I most covet in the shape of personal comfort—a cosy home in beautiful scenery, with the perfumed pine trees all around, the woodland solitude, where I c'n study the wild critters, beasts an' birds an' insects; the creek an' the lake, where I c'n paddle an' fish; my time all my own, with no slavish duties, no tasks, no responsibilities. An' it's all selfish, Gid, real mean an' selfish."
"Selfish, Kiddie?" Gideon screwed up his eyes in wonder.