“I’ll agree to the second dearest in the world, but I reckon you shoot too high when you say the plumb dearest.”
“She is. We’ll quarrel if you don’t agree,” trying desperately to divert him from the topic she knew he meant to pursue. For in the past two days he had been so busy helping O’Halloran that he had not even had a glimpse of her. As a consequence of which each felt half-dubious of the other’s love, and Frances felt wholly shy about expressing her own or even listening to his.
“Well, we’re due for a quarrel, I reckon. But we’ll postpone it till we got more time to give it.” He drew a watch from his pocket and glanced at it “In less than fifteen minutes Mike and our two friends who are making their getaway will come in that door Henderson just went out of. That means we won’t get a chance to be alone together, for about two days. I’ve got something to say to you, Curly Haid, that won’t keep that long with out running my temperature clear up. So I’m allowing to say it right now immediate. No, you don’t need to turn them brown appealers on me. It won’t do a mite of good. It’s Bucky to the bat and he’s bound to make a hit or strike out.”
“I think I hear Mr. Henderson coming,” murmured Frances, for lack of something more effective to say.
“Not him. He’s hogtied to the scenery long enough to do my business. Now, it won’t take me long if I get off right foot first. You read my letter, you said?”
“Which letter?” She was examining attentively the fringe of the sash she wore.
“Why, honey, that love-letter I wrote you. If there was more than one it must have been wrote in my sleep, for I ce’tainly disremember it.”
He could just hear her confused answer: “Oh, yes, I read that. I told you that before.”
“What did you think? Tell me again.”
“I thought you misspelled feelings.”