At Flo’s call the fellow halted with a grin. He was long, lean, loose jointed, dressed in blue overalls stuck into the tops of muddy boots, and his face was clear olive without beard or line. His brow bulged a little, and from under it peered out a pair of wistful brown eyes that reminded Carley of those of a dog she had once owned.
“Wal, it ain’t a-goin’ to be a nice day,” remarked Charley, as he tried to accommodate his strides to Carley’s steps.
“How can you tell?” asked Carley. “It looks clear and bright.”
“Naw, this is a dark mawnin’. Thet’s a cloudy sun. We’ll hev snow on an’ off.”
“Do you mind bad weather?”
“Me? All the same to me. Reckon, though, I like it cold so I can loaf round a big fire at night.”
“I like a big fire, too.”
“Ever camped out?” he asked.
“Not what you’d call the real thing,” replied Carley.
“Wal, thet’s too bad. Reckon it’ll be tough fer you,” he went on, kindly. “There was a gurl tenderfoot heah two years ago an’ she had a hell of a time. They all joked her, ’cept me, an’ played tricks on her. An’ on her side she was always puttin’ her foot in it. I was shore sorry fer her.”