"The four hundred," I decided, for her, "and let you run the farm."
"Done," snapped Peter.
It was evening when we parted from Peter Waydean on the station
platform. He shook me warmly by the hand as the train appeared.
"You're a gentleman, Mr. Carton, from the word go," he shouted hoarsely
in my ear. "The bargain's made, and though there's no writing betwixt
us, there's no need of any, for we're men of honor. I'll tell the other
man"----
"Yes, certainly," I assented, detaching myself as the train slowed up.
"Not a word to the neighbors about the well-sweep, or about what you're
paying for the place," he continued, holding the lapel of my coat.
"They're a prying, gossiping lot, and I wouldn't like it known that you
hoisted me on that darn see-saw. It's the first time Peter Waydean was
ever treed, but considering that you're the man that done it, we'll cry
quits."
As I caught a flashing steely glint in the depths of his ingenuous blue
eyes the conviction was borne in upon me that, like the simulated
stillness of a deadly revolving tool, his simplicity and truth were more
apparent than real. And this was the impression that made me so silent
and thoughtful on our journey back to the city.
For the close of such an eventful day we had little to say to each
other. With every mile that we travelled an unpleasant suspicion grew
stronger as I thought over the bargain with that guileful man; gradually
the suspicion changed to a certainty, and then it was that I became
aware that Marion, who had also been strangely silent, was studying me
with a tantalizing air of knowing my thoughts.
"What is it?" I asked, with sudden annoyance.
"I was just thinking," she began, then she stopped to laugh
gleefully--"do you remember what the postmistress said about him
skin"----
"Don't repeat it," I snapped, squirming. "Of course I remember, but I
don't see the application."
"Well, you shouldn't expect to if there isn't any," she said, with
renewed mirth. "It was odd, too, that he warned you he'd pay you back
for hoisting him."
"Will you be kind enough to explain the connection?" I demanded
fiercely.
It really is unsafe to use that tone with Marion. There was a little
flash in her eyes; my glare faltered, then her brief resentment melted
into sympathy.
"Connection?" she answered. "Why, what connection _could_ there be?"
My hand sought hers, in gratitude. There was a pause, then we both
laughed, and somehow the bitterness of knowing I had been gulled passed
away; I even felt a sympathetic appreciation of his artistic touch in
assuring me that we were both men of honor.
Suddenly Marion grasped my arm. "Henry," she exclaimed, "he's the man
you want!"
"The man I want?"
"Why, yes; didn't you say you wanted a central figure for that set of
rural sketches you've planned?"
"By Jove," I cried, with kindling enthusiasm, "he's a character all
ready made! If I do him justice, he'll be a--a regular gold mine."
I was rather puzzled by a meaning, but to me, inscrutable smile that
lingered on Marion's face after this comment, but she so often sees more
in a remark of mine than I do that I prefer not to spoil the effect by
asking for an explanation.