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CHAPTER XXI
ADVENTURING
If Connie truly was in pursuit of literary material, she was
indefatigable in the quest. But sometimes Carol doubted if it was
altogether literary material she was after. And David was very much
concerned,--what would dignified Father Starr, District Superintendent,
say to his youngest daughter, Connie the literary, Connie the proud,
Connie the high, the fine, the perfect, delving so assiduously into the
mysteries of range life as typified in big, brown, rugged Prince Ingram?
To be sure, Prince had risen beyond the cowboy stage and was now a "stock
man," a power on the ranges, a man of money, of influence. But David
felt responsible.
Yet no one could be responsible for Connie. Father Starr himself could
not. If she looked at one serenely and said, "I need to do this," the
rankest foolishness assumed the proportions of dire necessity. So what
could David, sick and weak, do in the face of the manifestly impossible?
Carol scolded her. And Connie laughed. David offered brotherly
suggestions. And Connie laughed again. Julia said Prince was a darling
big grandpa, and Connie kissed her.
The Frontier Days passed on to their uproarious conclusion. Connie saw
everything, heard everything and took copious notes.
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