Then she walked up and down
in front of the hotel. Finally she came back to the corner of the
porch.
"David," she said impetuously, "I've got to speak to one of them
myself." She waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the fair-grounds.
"One of them?" echoed David.
"Yes, one of those riders. I want to see if they can make me feel
anything. I want to find out if they are anything like other folks."
David looked up suddenly, and a smile came to his eyes. Connie turned
quickly, and there, not two feet from her, stood "One of them," the man
who had ridden King Devil. His sombrero was pushed back on his head,
and his hair clung damply to his brown forehead. His lean face was
cynical, sneering. He carried a whip and spurs in one hand, the other
rested on the bulging hip of his khaki riding trousers.
Connie stared, fascinated, into the thin, brown, sneering face.
"How do you do?" he said mockingly. "Isn't it charming weather?"
Connie still looked directly into his eyes. Somehow she felt that back
of the sneer, back of the resentment, there lay a little hurt that she
should have spoken so, classed him with fine horses and cattle, him and
his kind. Connie would make amends, a daughter of the parsonage might
not do ungracious things like that.
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