"Tom, you're dreadful. Do you think I'll help you cheat Mr. Horne by flirting with Lafe? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Tom Floyd."
"Who asked you to flirt? I've seen you mighty handy with them eyes of yours on other fellows, without being asked," he said good-humoredly.
"Oh, what a lie, Tom! I won't. Remember, I won't."
Autumn was rattling the dry bones of summer, and she and Johnson rode together every day. A keen southwest wind swirled the dead grass and leaves about their horses' feet. He would listen to her chatter by the hour, watching the pink grow in her cheeks. Lafe was very good-humored, indeed. With the improvement in his circumstances had come a marked improvement in appearance. He had imported what is known as a "hand-me-down" suit at the cost of a week's pay, and he took a pardonable pride in it, for the reason that the tailors expressly stated in their advertising that they catered only to gentlemen of refined tastes. Also, he had done some trafficking with Buffalo Jim, thereby obtaining a pair of whole boots.
[Illustration: "She and Johnson rode together every day."]
Often he spent hours with the baby Tommy, fashioning him ridiculous playthings, and tumbling on the ground for the child's delectation. And Sally gloated over Mrs. Tracey, who scarcely saw Lafe at all. Mrs. Floyd looked not an hour over eighteen.
"Now, Lafe, none of that. I won't listen."
Let us disregard the fruits of our experience and believe that Mrs. Floyd did not perceive what was growing in Johnson during those two weeks of companionship, although we may be convinced that even a stupid woman can sense it a mile off; and Mrs. Floyd was clever. But she would not give ear to her own doubts.
"That widow won't get him, anyhow," she said, standing in front of a mirror. She could not resist giving her hips an approving pat, and she smiled.
One evening, as they sat on the veranda, Lafe put up a forefinger languidly and touched a stray curl. She dashed his hand away.
"It's just as black and silky as ever," he said.
"Perhaps. But you keep your hands off! Do you hear?" Then she added: "There's no gray in it, anyhow."
Just for whom this shaft was meant will ever remain a profound mystery. Both Lafe and Mrs. Tracey had gray in their hair. That night Sally was demonstrative with Floyd, hanging over the back of his chair with her hands locked under his chin and her face snuggling against the top of his head. The boss blew clouds of smoke and seemed gently amused. These manifestations of devotion had become frequent of late, but it should not be hastily inferred that because Lafe was a spectator they were done for his benefit. That could not be, because he took them with such extraordinary fortitude. If he was harassed, Johnson stifled all expression of his condition grandly.