Judith of the Plains by Marie Manning
page 61 of 286 (21%)
page 61 of 286 (21%)
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unexpected.
"Itâs Peter Hamilton!" exclaimed Mrs. Dax. "Landâs sakes, the New-Yorker!" said the fat lady. Only Judith said nothing. Mr. Hamilton held the ribbons of that battered prairie-stage as if he had been driving past the judgesâ bench at the Horse Show. Furthermore, he wore blue overalls, a flannel shirt, and a sombrero, which sartorial inventory, while it highly became the slim young giant, added an extra comedy touch to his rôle of whip. He was as dusty as a miller; close-cropped, curly head, features, and clothes were covered with a fine alkali powdering; but he carried his youth as a banner streaming in the blue. And he swung from the stage with the easy flow of muscle that is the reward of those who live in the saddle and make a fine art of throwing the lariat. They greeted him heartily, all but Judith, who did not trust herself to speak to him before the prying eyes of Mrs. Dax, and escaped to the house. Chuggâs latest excursion into oblivion had resulted in a fall from the box. He was not badly hurt, and recuperation was largely a matter of "sleeping it off," concluded Peter Hamiltonâs bulletin of the condition of the stage-driver. So the travellers were still marooned at Daxâs, and the prospect of continuing their journey was as vague as ever. "Last I heard of you," said Mrs. Dax to Hamilton, with a sort of stone-age playfulness, "you was punching cows over to the Bitter Root." "Thatâs true, Mrs. Dax"âhe gave her his most winning smileâ"but I could |
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