“Why do you think so?” he asked.
“From your rudeness.”
He gave her an ugly look; his face slowly reddened.
“So you’re the path-master?” he said.
“Yes.”
“And you expect to get money out of me?”
She flushed painfully.
“You can’t get it,” he said, harshly; “I’m dog poor; I haven’t enough to buy two loads for my rifle. So I’ll buy one,” he added, with a sneer.
She was silent. He chewed the mint-leaf between his teeth and stared at her dog.
“If you are so poor—” she began.