“I’m goin’ to git into his ice-house all the same,” said the warden, without much enthusiasm.
“An’ I’m bound to git my road-tax,” said Byram, “but jest how I’m to operate I dunno.”
“Me neither,” added the warden, musingly. “God knows I hate to shoot people.”
What he really meant was that he hated to be shot at.
A young girl in a faded pink sunbonnet passed along the road, followed by a dog. She returned the road-master’s awkward salutation with shy composure. A few moments later the game-warden saw her crossing the creek on the stepping-stones; her golden-haired collie dog splashed after her.
“That’s a slick girl,” he said, twisting his heavy black mustache into two greasy points.
Byram glanced at him with a scowl.
“That’s the kid,” he said.
“Eh? Elton’s?”
“Yes.”