Westerfelt was near Mrs. Bradley when she came to say
good-night. He heard her say she had enjoyed herself very much, but
she spoke hurriedly, as if she did not want to be the last to leave.
Westerfelt watched them go through the gate, but he turned away when
Wambush put his arm round her waist and lifted her lightly into his
buggy.
He was sure he would never like the fellow.
Just before Westerfelt went to bed, Bradley looked into his room.
"I 'lowed I'd better take a peep at that stove o' yore'n, an' see that
thar ain't any danger o' fire while we are asleep," he said. "How'd
you make out to-night?"
"First rate."
"I 'lowed you wus gittin' on well enough--talked to most all the gals,
I reckon."
"All but one, I think--that Miss Floyd."
"Ah, Toot's gal; mortgaged property, I reckon, or soon will be; she's
as purty as red shoes, though, an' as peert as a cricket."
Westerfelt sat down on the side of his bed and drew off his boots.
"What sort of a man is he, Luke?"
"Bad--bad; no wuss in seven States."
"Fighting man?"
"Yes; an' whiskey an' moonshinin' an' what not; ain't but one good
p'int in 'im, an' that hain't wuth much in time o' peace.
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