Cheerio laughed. He could not help himself, though he quickly repressed it, as he felt the girl beside him stiffening.
“Well, old man, the stuff from the bunkhouse will do you more harm than good. I wouldn’t touch it with a stick. Tell you what we’ll do. When we’re through with the Musketeers, we’ll have a regular course of reading.”
“You said there were three sequels to the Musketeers.”
“So there are, and we’ll read them too; but we want to vary our reading. Now we’ll tackle a bit of Scott and then there’s some poetry I want you to read and—”
“Poetry! Slush-mush! Gee, we don’t want any poetry.”
“Oh, yes, you do. Wait till you hear the kind of poetry I’m going to read to you. Wait till we get into the Idylls of the King.”
“Idols! You mean gods like the savages worship?”
“No—but never mind. You’ll see when we get to them.”
Hilda said, with some pride:
“First time we go to Calgary, I’m going to buy some books for myself.”
“Where you going to get the money from?” demanded Sandy.
“I suppose Lady Bug won’t take the first prize at the Fall Horse Show—Oh, no, of course not.”
“Ye‑eh, and he’ll make you put the prize money in the bank.”
“He won’t.”
“How won’t he?”
“Because,” said Hilda, with dignity, “I happen to be eighteen years old. That’s of age. He can’t. Of course, you—”
Sandy groaned. Hilda had on more than one occasion rubbed in to him the sore matter of his infernal youth and her own advantage of being of age—the extraordinary powers that descended upon her in consequence of those eighteen years.
“I betchu,” said Sandy, “that Dad’ll whirl us through the town, in and out for the Fair, and we won’t get anywhere near a bookstore or the libry, and we won’t get a hopping chance to do any shopping. And if we do, he’ll go along to choose for us. Besides he’ll make you give him a list of the things you buy, and you won’t dare to put books on that list. He calls it systematic, scientific, mathmatical training of the mind. Oh, my God—frey!”
“I don’t care,” said Hilda bitterly. “I intend to buy what I choose with my own money. I’m going to get that book The Sheik. I saw it in the movies, with Valentino, and it was just lovely. Dad was playing chess at the Palliser and left me in the car, and I got out and went to the movies, and I just loved it, and I’m going every time I get a chance. You just watch me.”
Something in the eager, hungry way in which the girl spoke touched Cheerio and caused him suddenly to put his hand over the small one resting on her lap. His touch had an electrical effect upon the girl. She started to rise, catching her breath in almost a sob. She stood hesitating, trembling, her hand still held in that warm, comforting grasp. At that moment Cheerio would have given much to be alone with the girl. A few moments only of this thrilling possession of the little hand. Then it was wrenched passionately free. Hilda was regaining possession of her senses. The dusk had fallen deeply about them and he could not see her face, but he felt the quick, throbbing breath. A moment only she stayed, and then there was only the blur of her fleeing shadow in the night. Yet despite her going Cheerio felt strangely warmed and most intensely happy. He was acquiring a better knowledge and understanding of Hilda. Her odd moods, her chilling almost hostile attitude and speech no longer distressed him. Perhaps this might have been due to an amazing and most delicious explanation that her red-haired brother had vouchsafed:
“I guess my sister’s stuck on you,” had volunteered Sandy carelessly, whittling away at a stick, and utterly unconscious of the effect of his words on the alert Cheerio. “ ’Cause she swipes you to your face and throws a fit if anyone says a word about you behind your back.”
Little did that freckled-faced boy realize the amazing effects of his words. No further information in fact might have come from him at this juncture had not Cheerio flagrantly bribed him with “two bits.”
“Go on Sandy—”
“Go on with what?”
“About what you were saying about your sister.”
“Wa‑al—” Sandy scratched his chin after the manner of his father, as he tried to recall some specific instance to prove his sister’s interest in the briber. “I said myself that you were a poor stiff and she says: ‘You judge everyone by yourself, don’t you?’ And then I heard her give Hello to Bully Bill, ’cause he said that Holy Smoke was the best rider at O Bar O and Hilda says: ‘Why, Cheerio can ride all around him and back again. He’s just a big piece of cheese.’ And I heard Ho himself makin’ fun of you ’bout takin’ baths every day and ’bout your boiled Sunday shirts, and Hilda says to him: ‘ ’Twouldn’t be a bad idea if you took a leaf or two out of his book yourself; only you’ll need to stay in the river when you do get there, though it’ll be hard on the river.’ And another time I heard her say to Bully Bill when he was referrin’ to you as a vodeveel act, that time they put you to breakin’ Spitfire, she says: ‘Wonder what you’d look like yourself on his back? Wonder if you’d stay on. Spitfire’s pretty slippery, you know, and you’re no featherweight,’ and Bully Bill says: ‘Hell, I ain’t no tenderfoot,’ and she says: ‘ ’Course not. You’re a hard-boiled pig’s foot,’ and before he could sass her back—if he dared
