Their actions were so ludicrous that Nan wanted to scream, but they were in deadly earnest.
“Miss Singer,” said Len hoarsely, “I want yuh to meet Whisperin’ Taylor and Sailor Jones.
“Boys, this is Miss Singer, the new owner of the Box S.”
“T’meetcha,” said Sailor, jerking his head nervously.
“Shore a pleasure, ma’am,” said Whispering, and Sailor gave him a glance filled with disgust.
Nan held out her hand to Whispering, who looked at it, looked at her, but finally shook hands gently. The small, white hand looked too frail for him to essay a real handshake. Sailor didn’t wait for a handshake, but went back in the house.
“Well,” said Whispering resignedly, “the place belongs to you, ma’am. We’re at yore beck and call, I reckon.”
“I don’t want you at my beck and call,” said Nan. “You will do just as you have been in the habit of doing.”
“Minus the profanity,” added Len, grinning.
“Oh, shore—shore,” Whispering studied Nan’s face closely. “Yeah, I can see old Harmony in yuh, ma’am. Yore eyes are kinda like hisn, except his was brown. Yore uncle was a man. One of the whitest men on earth, I tell yuh. His word was as good as a gold bond. He played the game according to rules.”