"_I_ never mentioned all those things," he denied meekly. "It's you
that keeps on mentioning. I wish yuh wouldn't. I like to hear you
talk, all right, and flop all those big words easy as roping a calf;
but I wish you'd let me choose your subject for yuh. I could easy name
one where you could use words just as high and wide and handsome, and a
heap more pleasant than the brand you've got corralled. Try admiration
and felicitation and exhilarating, ecstatic osculation--" He stopped
to run the edge of paper along his tongue, and perhaps it was as well
he did; there was no need of making her any angrier. Miss Satterly
hated to feel that she was worsted, and it was quite clear that Weary
had all along been "guying" her.

"If you came here to make me _hate_ you, you have accomplished your
errand admirably; it would be advisable now for you to hike."

Weary, struck by that incongruous last word, did an unforgivable thing.
He laughed and laughed, while the match he had just lighted flared,
sent up a blue thread of brimstone smoke, licked along the white wood
and scorched his fingers painfully before he remembered his cigarette.

Miss Satterly turned abruptly and went into the house, put on her hat
and took up the little, tin lard-pail in which her aunt Meeker always
packed her lunch. She was back, had the key turned in the lock and was
slowly pulling on her gloves by the time Weary recovered from his mirth.

"Since you will not leave the place, I shall do so. I want to say
first, however, that I not only think you odious, but all the synonyms
I mentioned besides. You need not come for me to go to the Labor Day
dance, because I will not go with you. I shall go with Joe."