“She chose you, did she? Who’s she had to choose from?”
Dode Sinclair opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, and fell to twisting his hat with renewed vigour.
“Well,” he began awkwardly, “there was Dave Willet and that dude schoolmaster on Battle Creek and——”
“And you want to tell me Dave Willet and a dude schoolmaster on Battle Creek’s a fair show for a girl?” The old man paused. “You can’t, Dode—not me.”
Dode looked down at a pair of work-worn riding-boots, then up into the other’s face.
“What’s the matter with Dave Willet?” he demanded hotly, “or a dozen others who’d give their ears for her? I know we’re not fit to lick her boots; what man would be? but we’re as good as most round these parts.”
“Ah, these parts,” muttered the old man, “these parts. But they ain’t the world, Dode. You’ve got to get that into your head, though maybe it’ll be a job.”
“They’re good enough for me.”
“And me, and the rest of us; but they’re not good enough for my daughter.”
“She doesn’t say that.”