He will only
quote some platitude about mixing sentiment and business."
"Then I suppose the battle will have to go the full twenty rounds.
Well, Miss Parker, we're willing. We've already drawn first blood and
with your secret help we ought to about chew the tail off your old man."
"Cheerio." She held out her dainty little gloved hand to him. "See me
when you need more money, Mr. Bill. And remember! If you tell on me
I'll never, never forgive you."
He bent over her hand and kissed it. His caress was partly reverence,
partly a habit of courtliness surviving from a day that is done in
California, for under that shabby old tweed suit there beat the gallant
heart of a true cavalier.
[Illustration: The girl--Kay Parker.]
When Miss Parker had ridden away with Pablo at her heels, Bill Conway
unburdened himself of a slightly ribald little chanson entitled: "What
Makes the Wild Cat Wild?" In the constant repetition of this query it
appeared that the old Californian sought the answer to a riddle not
even remotely connected with the mystifying savagery of non-domestic
felines.
Suddenly he slapped his thigh. "Got it," he informed the payroll he
had been trying to add for half an hour. "Got it! She does love him.
Her explanation of her action is good but not good enough for me.
Medal of Honor man! Rats. She could loan him the money to pay her
father, on condition that her father should never know the source of
the aid, but if they reduced their association to a business basis he
would have to decide between the ranch and her.
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