“We're hustlers here,” put in MacKellar.
“We'll hustle all the way to hell in a generation more,” said the reporter. Then, after a minute, “Say, but there's one girl in that bunch that was the real thing! She sure did get me! You know all those fluffy things they do themselves up in—soft and fuzzy, makes you think of spring-time orchards. This one was exactly the colour of apple-blossoms.”
“You're susceptible to the charms of the ladies?” inquired Hal, mildly.
“I am,” said the other. “I know it's all fake, but just the same, it makes my little heart go pit-a-pat. I always want to think they're as lovely as they look.”
Hal's smile became reminiscent, and he quoted:
“Oh Liza-Ann, come out with me,
The moon is a-shinin' in the monkey-puzzle tree!”
Then he stopped, with a laugh. “Don't wear your heart on your sleeve, Mr. Keating. She wouldn't be above taking a peck at it as she passed.”
“At me? A worm of a newspaper reporter?”
“At you, a man!” laughed Hal. “I wouldn't want to accuse the lady of posing; but a lady has her role in life, and has to keep her hand in.”
There was a pause. The reporter was looking at the young miner with sudden curiosity. “See here,” he remarked, “I've been wondering about you. How do you come to know so much about the psychology of the leisure class?”