“I think the colt is worth every cent of it,” he said. “You know your way out. Good morning.”
“Say! You’re a real sport! Thank God you didn’t git lost in the woods that day? Shake on it.”
Old Luke Dangler extended his hand. Vane overlooked it.
“Shut the window after you,” said Vane.
So the old rogue went. There was nothing else for him to do.
CHAPTER XII
NO CHANCES
A bunch of belated letters arrived next morning for Vane. They had been hung up at the little town on the big river, where the postmaster had mislaid the address for forwarding which Vane had left with him. Three letters were from his mother, three from the lady whose indifference to and skepticism concerning the backwoods descendants of Willoughby Girl had stung him into making the journey to Forkville—and who had never before addressed so much as a scratch of a pen to him—and several from several firms of solicitors and attorneys. He read them all before he went to see Joe. He found Joe waiting for him, all ready for the morning walk.
“Let’s go out the Glen Road this morning,” she suggested.
“No, I think we had better get married this morning,” he said gravely.