her hat was crooked, with the wind blowing one's head off, almost,
but he had no business: "The old maid's credential card!"--"Old maid,"
indeed!

"The audacity of him!"

"Beg pardon?"

Miss Whitmore wheeled quickly, her heart in the upper part of her
throat, judging by the feel of it. Chip himself stood just inside
the door, eying her coldly.

"I was not speaking," said Miss Whitmore, haughtily, in futile denial.

To this surprising statement Chip had nothing to say. He went to
one of the iron beds, stooped and drew out a bundle which, had Miss
Whitmore asked him what it was, he would probably have called his
"war sack." She did not ask; she stood and watched him, though her
conscience assured her it was a dreadfully rude thing to do, and that
her place was up at the house. Miss Whitmore was frequently at odds
with her conscience; at this time she stood her ground, backed by her
pride, which was her chiefest ally in such emergencies.

When he drew a huge, murderous-looking revolver from its scabbard and
proceeded calmly to insert cartridge after cartridge, Miss Whitmore
was constrained to speech.

"Are you--going to--SHOOT something?"

The question struck them both as particularly inane, in view of his