aded, stringy boy between eighteen and nineteen years old.
His hands were laced back of the head, but he waggled a foot by way of
greeting.

"'Lo, June," he called.

"What you doin'?" she demanded.

"Oh, jes' watchin' the grass grow."

She sat down beside him, drawing up her feet beneath the skirt and
gathering the knees between laced fingers. Moodily, she looked down at
the water swirling round the rocks.

Bob Dillon said nothing. He had a capacity for silence that was not
uncompanionable. They could sit by the hour, these two, quite content,
without exchanging a dozen sentences. The odd thing about it was that
they were not old friends. Three weeks ago they had met for the first
time. He was flunkeying for a telephone outfit building a line to Bear
Cat.

"A man stayed up to the house last night," she said at last.

He leaned his head on a hand, turning toward her. The light blue eyes in
the freckled face rested on those of the girl.

Presently she added, with a flare of surging anger, "I hate him."

"Why?"

The blood burned beneath the tan of the brown cheeks. "'Cause."

"Shucks! That don't do any good. It don't buy you anything."

She swung upon him abruptly. "Don't you hate the men at the camp when
they knock you around?"

"What'd be the use? I duck outa the way next time."

Two savage little demons glared at him out of her dark eyes. "Ain't you
got any sand in yore craw, Bob Dillon? Do you aim to let folks run on you
all yore life? I'd fight 'em if 't was the last thing I ever did."

"Different here. I'd get my block knocked off about twice a week. You
don't see me in any scraps where I ain't got a look-in. I'd rather let
'em boot me a few," he said philosophically.

She frowned at him, in a kind of puzzled wonderment. "You're right queer.
If I was a man--"

The sentence died out. She was not a man. The limitations of sex
encompassed her. In Jake Houck's arms she had been no more than an
infant. He would crush her resistance--no matter whether it was physical
or mental--and fling out at her the cruel jeering laughter of one who
could win without even exerting his strength. She would never marry
him--never, never in the world. But--

A chill dread drenched her heart.

Young Dillon was sensitive to impressions. His eyes, fixed on the girl's
face, read something of her fears.

"This man--who is he?" he asked.

"Jake Houck. I never saw him till last night. My father knew him
when--when he wa