“Miss Messiter’s—the Lazy D.”
A suspicion began to penetrate the foreman’s brain. “Y’u ain’t Miss Darling?”
“What makes you so sure I’m not?” she asked, tilting her dimpled chin toward him aggressively.
“Y’u’re too young,” he protested, helplessly.
“I’m no younger than you are,” came her quick, indignant retort.
Thus boldly accused of his youth, the foreman blushed. “I didn’t mean that. Miss Messiter said she was an old lady—”
“You needn’t tell fibs about it. She couldn’t have said anything of the kind. Who are you, anyhow?” the girl demanded, with spirit.
“I’m the foreman of the Lazy D, come to get Miss Darling. My name is McWilliams—Jim McWilliams.”
“I don’t need your first name, Mr. McWilliams,” she assured him, sweetly. “And will you please tell me why you have kept me waiting here more than thirty hours?”
“Miss Messiter didn’t get your letter in time. Y’u see, we don’t get mail every day at the Lazy D,” he explained, the while he hopefully wondered just when she was going to need his last name.