He was loose and spineless, his movements tempered with
the slothfulness of the far Southwest. His appearance gave one
the impression that ready-made garments are never long enough. He
dusted his boots with his sombrero and cleared his throat.
"'Evening, Miss Jean. Is Mr. Chapin around?"
"I think you'll find him down by the spring-house. Can I do
anything for you?"
"Nope!" Stover sighed heavily, and got his frame gradually into
motion again.
"You're not looking well, Stover. Are you ill?" inquired Miss
Chapin.
"Not physical," said the foreman, checking the movement which had
not yet communicated itself the entire length of his frame. "I
reckon my sperret's broke, that's all."
"Haven't you recovered from that foot-race?"
"I have not, and I never will, so long as that ornery Centipede
outfit has got it on us."
"Nonsense, Stover!"
"What have they done?" inquired Miss Blake, curiously. "I haven't
heard about any foot-race."
"You tell her," said the man, with another sigh, and a hopeless
gesture that told the depth of his feelings.
Pages:
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33