CHAPTER III

DENNIS KAVANAGH'S GIRL


A rangy roan horse followed the dogs, galloping so wildly that when his
rider halted him his hoofs tore up the turf as he slid. A girl rode him.
She was mounted astride, and Presson had to look twice at her to make
sure she was a girl, for she wore knickerbockers and gaiters, and her
copper-red hair curled so crisply that it seemed as short as a boy's.

"Good-morning, Mr. Duke," she called. "Is Harlan down from the woods
yet?"

The old man turned to march off after a scornful glance at her. He
kicked away another dog. Then he whirled and stepped back toward her. It
was anger and not courtesy that impelled him.

"He isn't here, and he won't be here. And how many times more have I got
to tell you not to be impertinent to me?"

"How, Mr. Duke?"

"By that infernal nickname," he stormed. "Young woman, I've told you to
stay on your side of the river, and you--"

"Really you ought to be called 'Duke' if you order folks off the earth