As he had said to her that first day, she now cautioned him: “Be drinking slowly.”
When the screen-door swung behind them, one of the men at the counter asked of the attendant: “Now, what did that mean?”
“Exactly what you saw,” replied he, rather curtly. “We’re accustomed to it here. Hardly a day passes, this hot weather, but she’s picking up some poor, godforsaken mortal and bringing him in. Then she comes behind the counter herself and fixes up a drink to suit the occasion. She’s all sorts of fancies about what’s what for all kinds of times and conditions, and you bet she can just hit the spot! Ain’t a clerk here can put up a drink to touch her. She’s a sort of knack at it. Every once in a while, when the Boss sees her, he calls out to her to mix him a drink.”
“And does she?” asked the man with an interested grin.
“Well, I guess! But first she goes back and sees how long it is since he’s had a drink. What he drank last. How warm he is. When he ate last. Then she comes here and mixes a glass of fizz with a little touch of acid, and a bit of cherry, lemon, grape, pineapple, or something sour and cooling, and it hits the spot just as no spot was ever hit before. I honestly believe that the interest she takes in it is half the trick, for I watch her closely and I can’t come within gunshot of her concoctions. She has a running bill here. Her father settles once a month. She gives nine-tenths of it away. Hardly ever touches it herself, but when she does she makes me mix it. She’s just old persimmons. Even the scrub-boy of this establishment would fight for her. It lasts the year round, for in winter it’s some poor, frozen cuss that she’s warming up on hot coffee or chocolate.”
“Mighty queer specimen she had this time,” volunteered another. “Irish, hand off, straight as a ramrod, and something worth while in his face. Notice that hat peel off, and the eyes of him? There’s a case of ‘fight for her!’ Wonder who he is?”
“I think,” said a third, “that he’s McLean’s Limberlost guard, and I suspect she’s gone to the swamp with the Bird Woman for pictures and knows him that way. I’ve heard that he is a master hand with the birds, and that would just suit the Bird Woman to a T.”
On the street the Angel walked beside Freckles to the first crossing and there she stopped. “Now, will you promise to ride fast enough to make up for the five minutes that took?” she asked. “I am a little uneasy about Mrs. Duncan.”
Freckles turned his wheel into the street. It seemed to him he had poured that delicious icy liquid into every vein in his body instead of his stomach. It even went to his brain.
“Did you insist on fixing that drink because you knew how intoxicating ’twould be?” he asked.
There was subtlety in the compliment and it delighted the Angel. She laughed gleefully.
“Next time, maybe you won’t take so much coaxing,” she teased.
“I wouldn’t this, if I had known your father and been understanding you better. Do you really think the Bird Woman will be coming again?”
The Angel jeered. “Wild horses couldn’t drag her away,” she cried. “She will have hard work to wait the week out. I shouldn’t be in the least surprised to see her start any hour.”
Freckles could not endure the suspense; it had to come.
“And you?” he questioned, but he dared not lift his eyes.
“Wild horses me, too,” she laughed, “couldn’t keep me away either! I dearly love to come, and the next time I am going to bring my banjo, and I’ll play, and you sing for me some of the songs I like best; won’t you?”
“Yis,” said Freckles, because it was all he was capable of saying just then.
“It’s beginning to act stormy,” she said. “If you hurry you will just about make it. Now, goodbye.”
IX
Wherein the Limberlost falls upon Mrs. Duncan and Freckles comes to the rescue.
Freckles was halfway to the Limberlost when he dismounted. He could ride no farther, because he could not see the road. He sat under a tree, and, leaning against it, sobs shook, twisted, and rent him. If they would remind him of his position, speak condescendingly, or notice his hand, he could endure it, but this—it surely would kill him! His hot, pulsing Irish blood was stirred deeply. What did they mean? Why did they do it? Were they like that to everyone? Was it pity?
It could not be, for he knew that the Bird Woman and the Angel’s father must know that he was not really McLean’s son, and it did not matter to them in the least. In spite of accident and poverty, they evidently expected him to do something worth while in the world. That must be his remedy. He must work on his education. He must get away. He must find and do the great thing of which the Angel talked. For the first time, his thoughts turned anxiously toward the city and the beginning of his studies. McLean and the Duncans spoke of him as “the boy,” but he was a man. He must face life bravely and act a man’s part. The Angel was a mere child. He must not allow her to torture him past endurance with her frank comradeship that meant to him high heaven, earth’s richness, and all that lay between, and nothing to her.
There was an ominous growl of thunder, and amazed at himself, Freckles snatched up his wheel and raced toward the swamp. He was worried to find his boots lying at the cabin door; the children playing on the woodpile told him that “mither” said they were so heavy she couldn’t walk in them, and
