The little waif was staring at her in perplexed
surprise, mouth open and chin fallen. He could see no occasion for
gayety at his suggestion. There was nothing subtle about the Runt. In
his social code wealth did not figure. A forty-dollar-a-month bronco
buster was free to offer advice to the daughter of a millionaire about
her matrimonial prospects if it seemed best.
And just now it seemed to Johnnie decidedly best. He scratched his tow
head, for he had mulled the whole thing over and decided reluctantly to
do his duty by the girl. So far as he could make out, Beatrice
Whitford played no favorites in her little court of admirers. Clay
Lindsay and Clarendon Bromfield were with her more than any of the
others. If she inclined to either of the two, Johnnie could see no
evidence of it. She was gay and frank with both, a jolly comrade for a
ride, a dinner dance, or a theater party.
This was what troubled Johnnie. Of course she must be in love with
Clay and want to marry him, since she was a normal human being. But if
she continued to play with Bromfield the Westerner might punish her by
sheering off. That was the reason why the Runt was doing his
conscientious duty this fine morning.
"Clay ain't one o' the common run of cowpunchers, ma'am. You bet you,
by jollies, he ain't. Clay he owns a half-interest in the B-in-a-Box.
O' course it ain't what he's got, but what he is that counts. He's the
best darned pilgrim ever I did see.
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