emphatic in his own mind concerning
his matured status, yearned for her to understand it as he did. With
such purpose clearly before him . . . and before her, too, for that
matter, since Miss Florrie had a keen little comprehension of her
own . . . he spoke largely of himself and his blossoming plans. He was
a vaquero, to begin with; he had ridden fifty miles yesterday on range
business; he was making money; he was putting part of that money away
in Mr. Engle's bank. There was a little ranch on the rim of Engle's
big holding which belonged to an old half-breed; Elmer meant to acquire
it himself one of these days. And before so very long, too. Mr. Engle
had been approached and was looking into it, might be persuaded to
advance the couple of thousand dollars for the property, taking as
security a mortgage until Elmer could have squared for it. Then Black
Bill would begin stocking his place, a cow now, a horse, another cow,
and so on.

He had launched himself valiantly into his tale. But at a certain
point he began to swallow and catch at his words and smoke fast between
sentences. He had located a dandy spot for a house . . . the jolliest
little spring of cold water you ever saw . . . a knoll with big trees
upon it.

"We'll make up a party with Virginia and Norton some day and ride out
there," he said abruptly. "I . . . I'd like to have you see it, Fluff."

She was tremulously delighted. She sensed the nearest thing to an
out-and-out proposal which had ever sung in her ears. She leaned
forward eagerly, her hands clasped to keep them from trembling. She
was sixteen, he eighteen . . . and she had his assurance of a moment
ago that they were no longer just "kids." And then and there their
so-long-delayed quarrel began. Just at the wrong time, after the
time-honored fashion of quarrels. He was ready to twine the vine about
the veranda posts of the house on the knoll where the spring and the
big trees were, she was ready to plant the fig-tree. Then she had
glimpsed something just too funny for anything in the idea of Elmer
raising pigs . . . for he had gone on to that, sagely anticipating a
high market another season . . . and she laughed at him and all
unintentionally wounded his feelings. In a flash he was Black Bill
again and on his mettle, ready with the quick retort stung from him;
and she, parrying his thrust, was at once Fluff, the mercuric. The
spat was on . . . they would call it a spat to-morrow