“Better say when we’re back across the line again. That may be inside of three days, if everything goes well,” he threw in as a bait.
“Done. I’m to open the letter when we cross the line into Texas.”
Bucky shook the little hand that was offered him and wished mightily that he had the right to celebrate with more fervent demonstrations.
That afternoon the ranger wrote with a good deal of labor the letter he had promised. It appeared to be a difficult thing for him to deliver himself even on paper of those good and sufficient reasons. He made and destroyed no less than half a dozen openings before at last he was fairly off. Meanwhile, Master Frank, busy over some alterations in Bucky’s gypsy suit, took pleasure in deriding with that sweet voice the harassed correspondent.
“It might be a love letter from the pains you take with it. Would you like me to come and help you with it?” the sewer railed merrily.
“I ain’t used to letter writing much,” apologized the scribe, wiping his bedewed brow, which had suddenly gone a shade more flushed.
“Apparently not. I expect, from the time you give it, the result will be a literary classic.”
“Don’t you disturb me, Curly, or I’ll never get done,” implored the tortured ranger.
“You’re doing well. You’ve only been an hour and a half on six lines,” the tormentor mocked.
Womanlike, she was quite at her ease, since he was very far indeed from being at his. Yet she had a problem of her own she was trying to decide.