The Argosy, Vol. 90 No. 1 — page 69: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

LITTLE BOSS than misses, and folks have talked him up till he’s took their opinions of himself!”’ “ He thinks girls can’t do anything more than look pretty!” “ That’s a pretty common idee with folks in the East. I reckon the wimmin’s had something to do with making them think like that.” Fan looked at the wiry oid man. He was as ugly as nature in ungenerous mood, and wind, rain, and weather could make him. But there was a fine reasonableness and a hale seasonableness about him that pro- claimed him a man. To Fan he looked like one of the earth’s best. “ Nunkie, you’re fine; but you’re wrong. The women in the East start things besides fashions. They’ve had to work like every- thing for a lot that men like you and the boys out there just naturally give us. A man must be an awful nut to itive in the midst of things and never get a big enough crack in his head to let in an idea about us! Besides, he isn’t from the East; it’s only east of here!” Back on the edge of the porch Ben was completely lost. He saw no guide-posts to give him a clue. It never occurred to him to think that Frances Fleming was attach- ing an amazing amount of importance to Ben Moore’s opinion of her sex. ‘“ Nunkie, you'll stick?” the girl suddenly demanded, leaning forward to lay her hand on his shoulder. “Gosh! I’ve got to!” he ejaculated mis- erably. ‘Yes, you’ve got to!” she affirmed mer- cilessly. Moore, watching from the ranch-house, saw her lean forward. A queen might have conferred the sign of her favor on a sub- Servient knight with some such action. Moore’s lips closed; and his jaw stiffened. The determination to run his own ranch without Miss Fleming’s interference hard- ened. Presently he went over the ranch with Fleming and it was after six when he re- turned to the ranch-house. As he entered the living-room, he saw that the table was laid for dinner. Rather curiously he stopped beside it. The linen was good. The dishes were of OF BIG BEN. 63 china with a Japanese design. The knives and flat silver were disposed according to conventional usage. On the side of the table a low bowl filled with yellow flowers was placed. And there were covers for two. Moore went to his room. Who were the two? Himself, of course. But the other? Fleming or Fleming’s daughter? He took time to change to blue serge from khaki. All the while his curiosity and his appetite pricked him to speed. He reentered the living-room. It was empty, though a big acetylene lamp in the middle of the room had been lighted. And a chair had been placed at one side of the table. He went toward it. The second plate and its accompaniments had been removed. He dined alone. It was not the last time. For a week he was served by Pale- face, who was about as conversational as a gnarly pine-tree on the sunless side of a canon. During that week he caught occasional glimpses of Miss Fleming. He often saw her at a distance. She seemed to spend her time when out of the saddle in and around the little house. But twice he was sure he had heard her in her own room when he had returned unexpectedly to the ranch-house. She was avoiding him. The thought was as uncomfortable in his mind as a bur in his boot would have been. He could not seem to get away from it, busy as he was. He was more than pleased with the con- dition in which he found his interests. He began wondering that he was letting others do the enthralling work of bringing this desert into rose-garden shape. Fleming - was peculiarly difficult. He knew every detail of the ranch, its equip- ment and its management. But he appeared to have no notion of the animating pur- pose which Moore detected behind all the detail. The ranch owner tried to get his manager to open up along the lines about which he had written freely. But Fleming always fell into an irritating silence, punctuated with grunted monosyllables when he was forced to answer. comicbool< CO