“I know, but the poor dears have been hunted so much for things like moonshining, which they consider perfectly all right—you know they can’t see for the life of them why they should be taxed, or be breaking the law, because they make some corn mash out of their own corn and distill it—”
“I know. But the poor dears give me a pain in the neck when they try to bust up my ship. But let’s not worry about it, eh?”
Whereupon, in a very presentable baritone, he burst forth into a song:
“Snap your fingers at care!
Don’t cross the bridge ’till you’re there—”
The girl hesitated, smiled, and finally laughed. She became serious again very soon, however.
“That’s fine, but please be careful and try not to alienate them any more, won’t you?” she begged him.
Hemingwood assented, and he was aware of a curious feeling of warm satisfaction that she took so much interest in the situation. He himself simply couldn’t be worried about it. He was an unusual type. He could not be said to be brave, because he was really unacquainted with fear. It was a strange paradox, that a man who loved living so much should hold life itself so cheaply as did George Arlington Hemingwood, of the Hemingwoods of Boston.
“I’ll bring you your supper,” she offered.
“I’ve got to go to town and see if I can rustle some blankets and perhaps a tent from your uncle. He just told me he had some.”
The noise of a motor became clear, and George looked up to see the Mumford truck on its way homeward.