“Fond of him?” ejaculated Grant in disgust; “he is the most obnoxious creature in the district. He treats everybody who is working for him as if they were dogs. He has this bruiser, Bud Bledsoe, as a sort of bodyguard and this W. Henry Carlisle as a legal protector, so he attempts to walk rough shod over everybody—indifferent and insolent. Oh, let’s not talk about Grady. I become indecently indignant whenever I think of his outrages against some of the poor fellows in this camp.”
“All right,” said Roderick, jovially looking up; “let us talk about the dance and especially Miss Dorothy.”
“That’s the text,” said Grant, “Dorothy—Dorothy Shields-Jones. Won’t that make a corker of a name though? If I tell you a secret will you promise it shall be sacred?”
“Certainly,” replied Roderick.
“Well,” said Grant, reddening, “while I was over there at the Dillon Doublejack office, isolated from the world, surrounded with mountains and snow—nothing but snow and snowbanks and high mountains in every direction, why, I played job printer and set up some cards with a name thereon—can’t you guess?”
“Impossible,” said Roderick, smiling broadly.
“Well, Mrs. Dorothy Shields-Jones,” he repeated slowly, then laughed uproariously at the confession.
“Let me see one of the cards,” asked Roderick.
“Oh, no, I only kept the proof I pulled before pieing the type, and that I have since torn up. But just wait That girl’s destiny is marked out for her,” continued Grant, enthusiastically, “and believe me, Warfield, I shall make her life a happy one.”
“Hope you’ve convinced her of that, old man?”