"Don't be disgusting."
"No disgusting about it. I'll probably hug you, too."
"What dismal beasts men are," she said, with a mock shiver, having regained control of her jumpy nerves. "I suppose you'd enjoy having me sit on your knee."
"I would indeed," he told her warmly. "I think that chair there would hold the two of us if we sat quiet—fairly quiet."
It was at this juncture that her father, Sam Prescott, came out on the porch.
"Howdy, young Bill," said Sam. He invariably prefixed the adjective to Bill's name. Why, no one knew. It was doubtful if he knew himself.
"'Lo, Sam," said young Bill.
"Sam," said Sally Jane from the hammock, "s'pose now a man tried to hug you, and kiss you and make you sit on his knee, what would you do?"
"If I was you, you mean?" inquired Sam judicially. Middle-aged though he was, he never ceased to experience a pleasurable thrill when his daughter called him "Sam." It reminded him so much of her mother. "If I was you," he went on, without waiting for an answer, "and the feller which tried to make me do all those things was young Bill here, I'd do 'em. I really believe he likes you, Sally Jane."
"You think so, do you?" sighed Sally Jane, smoothing her frock down over her ankles. "You too, Samuel? What chance has a poor girl got—without a club?"