"We'll put these patent leathers gently into the river, or on a shelf,
until I face the East again," he said, half apologetically. Then with a
quick burst of English simplicity, he said: "Oh, Banty, I want to be one
of you!"
"And you're going to be one of us," said that sturdy young Westerner.
"In fact, Con--well, you just _are_ one of us," he added.
The lanky, pink-faced boy grew pinker.
"I know I'm an awful length and all that," he said, "but I'm only
sixteen, don't you know!"
Banty grinned. The "Don't you know," which at first horrified him, was,
oddly enough, growing to be almost fascinating. Banty would have felt
himself an awful owl were he to say it, but it somehow suited the tall,
pink boy, and did not sound one particle "dudish," or offensive, and
during the ten-mile drive across the Kamloops Hills Banty decided that
Con was a first-rate fellow, notwithstanding his abominable clothes and
"swagger" English accent. At the ranch house door they were greeted
by Banty's parents and a couple of range riders, and Eena, who,
Indian-like, never revealed the fact by word or look that he had
observed the patent leather shoes, and the wonderful high collar; who,
also Indian-like, in spite of these drawbacks, liked the stranger
without cause, a peculiar instinct of liking that came when the young
King Georgeman shook hands with him, a wholesome British "shake" that
engendered confidence.
Pages:
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305