“How good time do you think Puffy Pete could make across-desert in case I should want it?” inquired the agent after a pause.
The mail-man contemplated his “team,” bubbling and panting a vaporous breath over the platform. “Pete ain’t none too fond of sand,” he confessed. “But if you want to git anywhere, him and me’ll git you there. You know that, Ban.”
Banneker nodded comradely and the post chugged away.
Inside the shack Io had set out the luncheon-things. To Banneker’s eyes she appeared quite unruffled, despite the encounter which he had surmised from Jimmy’s sketch.
“Get me some flowers for the table, Ban,” she directed. “I want it to look festive.”
“Why, in particular?”
“Because I’m afraid we won’t have many more luncheons together.”
He made no comment, but went out and returned with the flowers. Meantime Io had made up her mind.
“I’ve had an unpleasant surprise, Ban.”
“I was afraid so.”