“I want six of the Italian bunch down there,” he nodded toward the valley below, where men were already gathering for the day’s work. “I want six that work, and don’t talk. Can you pick ’em out?”
Billy named six, but recommended the tramp-philosopher.
“No, not any Americans; not on this job. Now I must go down to the grade, stop the work, and pay off the men. I guess that’s all, Billy. Your work here begins to-morrow night. Sorry it’s not to be at our picnic.”
When Billy left him and started down the steps, May Nell came running out to meet him. “Billy! Wait a minute!”
The sun touched her hair to brighter gold. She was rosier, fuller of cheek than formerly, and rounder of neck and arm, with an indescribable dignity that was not quite a woman’s, yet more than girlish.
“I heard you and hurried out to catch you. I never see you any more.”
“I’m pretty busy these days.”
“Tell me why you called me ‘Miss Smith’ the other day.”
“I’m only your father’s hired workman down there—as I am anywhere for that matter—and those fellows mustn’t see me presume to speak to you.”
She laughed merrily. “That seems positively funny, Billy, when I think of the day you led me into your mother’s house with a sheet pinned round me, a woman’s skirt torn and trailing, and my toes showing through my shoes.”