“Never have,” said Johnny.
“Well, you’re going to before this day is ...”
* * * * * * * *
... look into her eyes, he found himself seeing cold, blue-gray circles expressing as near as he could tell, undying hate.
“Of course,” he said to Blackie, “you can’t expect a girl to understand about boxing, with all of its ups and downs. But it does seem she might give a fellow the benefit of the doubt.”
“She will, son. She will,” Blackie reassured him. “Perhaps sooner than you think.” Was this prophesy or a guess? Time would tell.
Rusty McGee was the type of girl any real boy might be proud to call a pal. With an easy smile, a freckled face and a mass of wavy, rust-colored hair, she caught your interest at a glance. The strong, elastic, healthy spring of her whole self kept you looking.
More than once during his visit to the McGee summer home, a stout log cabin nestling among the barren Alaskan hills, Johnny found his eyes following her movements as she glided from room to room.
“Boy, she can cook!” Blackie exclaimed as he set his teeth into the juicy breast of “mountain quail,” as ptarmigan are often called. And Johnny did not disagree.
Since the crew of the Stormy Petrel were her father’s friends, it was evident that Rusty meant to do her best as a hostess. But to Johnny she gave never a smile.