His father laughed. "Maybe we did. I noticed he was near blubberin'. I expect it's 'Adios, Señor Miller.' He's got two years more to serve, and after that he'll have another nice long term to serve for robbin' the stage. All I wish is we'd done the job more thorough and sent some friends of his along with him. Well, that's up to Applegate."
"I'm glad it is," said Joyce emphatically.
"Any news to-day from Jackpot Number Three?" asked the president of that company.
"Bob Hart sent in to get some supplies and had a note left for me at the post-office," Miss Joyce mentioned, a trifle annoyed at herself because a blush insisted on flowing into her cheeks. "He says it's the biggest thing he ever saw, but it's going to be awf'ly hard to control. Where is that note? I must have put it somewhere."
Emerson's eyes flickered mischief. "Oh, well, never mind about the note.
That's private property, I reckon."
"I'm sure if I can find it—"
"I'll bet my boots you cayn't, though," he teased.
"Dad! What will Mr. Sanders think? You know that's nonsense. Bob wrote because I asked him to let me know."
"Sure. Why wouldn't the secretary and field superintendent of the Jackpot Company keep the daughter of the president informed? I'll have it read into the minutes of our next board meetin' that it's in his duties to keep you posted."
"Oh, well, if you want to talk foolishness," she pouted.