A puff of wind fanned the girl’s cheek.
“Near thing,” her companion said coolly. He looked back at the swarthy man and laughed softly. “Some day you’ll mebbe wish you had sent your pills straighter, Mr. Judd Morgan.”
Yet a few wheel-turns and they had dipped forward out of range among the great land waves that seemed to stretch before them forever. The unexpected had happened, and she had achieved a rescue in the face of the impossible.
“Hurt badly?” the girl inquired briefly, her dark-blue eyes meeting his as frankly as those of a boy.
“No need for an undertaker. I reckon I’ll survive, ma’am.”
“Where are you hit?”
“I just got a telegram from my ankle saying there was a cargo of lead arrived there unexpected,” he drawled easily.
“Hurts a good deal, doesn’t it?”
“No more than is needful to keep my memory jogged up. It’s a sort of a forget-me-not souvenir. For a good boy; compliments of Mr. Jim Henson,” he explained.
Her dark glance swept him searchingly. She disapproved the assurance of his manner even while the youth in her applauded his reckless sufficiency. His gay courage held her unconsenting admiration even while she resented it. He was a trifle too much at his ease for one who had just been snatched from dire peril. Yet even in his insouciance there was something engaging; something almost of distinction.