"Shows your good sense," said Billy, going over to the chair lately vacated by Rafe Tuckleton and sitting down. "But I'd like to know what he's thinking of, the old jake."
Her amused eyes sought his. "Am I such a poor match as that?"
"You know what I mean," he grumbled. "He's got no right proposing to you, no right a-tall. Why, he's old enough to be your father."
"So he is. Do you know, I never thought of that?"
"You're foolin' now," grunted Billy. "Tell you, Hazel, what you want is some young feller with property and all his teeth."
"I don't want anybody," she declared, "young or otherwise. Billy, you're sheriff now—" she continued, changing the subject.
"Not yet," he interrupted. "I don't take office till the first of the year."
She nodded. "I understand. And I want to ask you a question. It's—it's—you will say it's none of my business, I expect."
"Anything's your business you want to ask questions about. Fly at it."
"Who elected you sheriff, Billy?"