“Oh, I loved you all the time!” said Hilda McPherson.
At this juncture, they stopped walking, for one may not kiss as satisfactorily while moving along.
When Hilda regained her power of speech, she said:
“I’m never going to say another unkind thing to you.”
“You can say anything you want, sweetheart,” said Cheerio. “Whatever you say will sound just right to me—dearest old girl.”
It occurred to Hilda that he possessed a most wonderful and extensive vocabulary. She had never heard such terms before, and when she had read them Hilda had felt embarrassed, and in her rough way had thought: “Oh, slush!”
But somehow the words had an almost lyrical sound when uttered by the infatuated Cheerio.
They were brought back to life by the yipping, jeering Sandy.
“Gee! I believe you two’s struck on each other!”
He reined up beside them and examined the telltale faces with all a boy’s cunning and disgusted amusement.
“Say, are you goin’ to git married?”
“You better believe we are!” laughed Cheerio, falling easily into the slang of the country.
“Holy Salmon! Well, there’s no accountin’ for tastes,” said Hilda’s young brother, with disparagement. Then resignedly: “But, I betchu Dad’ll be tickled. He’ll have a life partner for chess. Gee! Here’s where I escape!”
He kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks and with the grace and agility of a circus rider, with neither saddle nor bridle merely a halter—Sandy was off. He turned bodily around in his seat on the running horse’s back to yell back at them as he rode, hand to mouth:
“Aw, cut out the spoons! I’m going to hustle home and break the news to fa-ather! Let ’er go, bronc! Let ’er fly! Let ’er fly!”
They smiled after the vanishing boy, smiled into each other’s faces and smiled at the sunshine and the gilded hills, now shining in the full light of the marvellous Alberta sun. After a moment, shyly, despite the fact that she was held closely to him:
“What’s your real name?”
“Edward Eaton Charlesmore of Macclesfield and Coventry.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“N-no, I’m not, darling. That’s my real name.”
Hilda smiled delightedly.
“But what do they call you?”
He laughed, squeezed her tightly, kissed her and then kissed her again.
“Cheerio!” he said.
“But that’s not a real name!”
“It’s good enough for me. You gave me it, you know.”
“And—and are you really a duke or something like that?”
Again he laughed.
“You bet I am.”
Her face fell. She regretted his high estate. Cheerio put his lips against her small pink ear, and he kissed it before he whispered what he said was a great secret:
“Hilda, I’ll tell you who I am: Cheerio, Duke of the O Bar O, and you’re the darling Duchess!”
“That’s Jake!” said Hilda.
Colophon
His Royal Nibs
was published in by
Winnifred Eaton Reeve.
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Sergio Tellez,
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Internet Archive.
The cover page is adapted from
His Royal Nibs,
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An Unknown Artist.
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