Ernestine clapped her hands, flung a tantalizing, man-challenging,
man-conquering glance at Bert Wainwright, and exclaimed: "And he comes
tomorrow!"

Dick shook his head reprovingly.

"Oh, nothing in that direction, Ernestine. Just as nice girls as you
have tried to hook Evan Graham before now. And, between ourselves, I
couldn't blame them. But he's had good wind and fast legs, and they've
always failed to run him down or get him into a corner, where, dazed
and breathless, he's mechanically muttered 'Yes' to certain
interrogatories and come out of the trance to find himself, roped,
thrown, branded, and married. Forget him, Ernestine. Stick by golden
youth and let it drop its golden apples. Pick them up, and golden
youth with them, making a noise like stupid failure all the time you
are snaring swift-legged youth. But Graham's out of the running. He's
old like me--just about the same age--and, like me, he's run a lot of
those queer races. He knows how to make a get-away. He's been cut by
barbed wire, nose-twitched, neck-burnt, cinched to a fare-you-well,
and he remains subdued but uncatchable. He doesn't care for young
things. In fact, you may charge him with being wobbly, but I plead
guilty, by proxy, that he is merely old, hard bitten, and very wise."




CHAPTER IX