"Jim, she wouldn't dare, an' us two fellers
liable to bust her house to pieces."
"Don't you know she'd be dead sure to play a trick like that?" said
Jim, who could not bear to listen to a doubt. "Don't you see she
couldn't do anything else, bein' a woman?"
"Maybe--maybe," answered Keno, with a sort of acquiescence that is
deadlier than an out-and-out denial. "But--I wouldn't want to see you
disappointed, Jim--I wouldn't want to see it."
"Wal, you come on, that's all," said Jim. "If it ain't so--I want to
know it early in the day!"
"But--what can I do?" still objected Keno. "Wouldn't you rather I'd
stay home and git the breakfast?"
"We don't want any breakfast if she 'ain't got the little boy. You
come on!"
Keno came; so did Tintoretto. The three went down the slope as the sun
looked over the rim of the mountains. The chill and crispness of the
air seemed a part of those early rays of light.
In sight of the home of Doc and Miss Dennihan, they paused and stepped
behind a fence, for the door of the neat little house was open and the
lady herself was sweeping off the steps, with the briskness inseparable
from her character.
She presently disappeared, but the door, to Jim's relief, was left
standing open.
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