"Does he? I'm sure I'm gratified," she murmured, busy with her
scissors among the roses.
"Yep. I never knowed Clay to look at a girl before. He sure thinks a
heap of you."
She gave a queer little bubbling laugh. "You're flattering me."
"Honest, I ain't." Johnnie whispered a secret across the rose-bushes.
"Say, if you work it right I believe you can get him."
The girl sparkled. Here was a new slant on matrimonial desirability.
Clearly the view of the little cow-puncher was that Clay had only to
crook his fingers to summon any girl in the world that he desired.
"Do you think so--with so many attractive girls in New York?" she
pleaded.
"He don't pay no 'tention to them. Honest, I believe you can if you
don't spill the beans."
"What would you advise me to do?" she dimpled.
"Sho! I dunno." He shyly unburdened himself of the warning he had
been leading up to. "But I'd tie a can to that dude fellow that hangs
around--the Bromfield guy. O' course I know he ain't one two three
with you while Clay's on earth, but I don't reckon I'd take any
chances, as the old sayin' is. No, ma'am, I'd ce'tainly lose him
_pronto_. Clay might get sore. Better get shet of the dude."
Miss Whitford bit her lip to keep from exploding in a sudden gale of
mirth. But the sight of her self-appointed chaperon set her off into
peals of laughter in spite of herself. Every time she looked at
Johnnie she went off into renewed chirrups. He was so homely and so
deadly earnest.
Pages:
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101