A
dance platform was erected on a prominent corner, and bands were
brought in from all the neighboring towns on the plains.
Connie was convinced she could get enough material to last a lifetime.
No detective was hotter on the scent of a trail than she. Never two
cowboys met in a secluded corner in the lobby to divide their hardly
earned coins, but Connie sauntered slowly by, catching every word,
noting the size of every coin that changed possession. No gaily garbed
horseman could signal to a girl of his admiration, but Connie caught
the motion first, and was taking mental notes for future coinage. They
were not people to her, just material. She loved them, she reveled in
them, she dreamed of them, just as a collector of curios gloats over
the treasures he amasses. She classified them in a literary note-book
for her own use, and kept them on file for instant reference.
When they went to the fair-grounds, early, in order to secure a
comfortable seat for David where he should not miss one twist of a
rider's supple body, they were as delighted as children truanting from
school. It was the most exhilarating thing in the world,--this clever
little trick on the sleeping porch and the white cot, on egg-nogs and
beef juice and buttermilk.
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