; for had she not been particular to show the Pilgrim that his
presence was extremely undesirable, that night at the dance?
"Hello, folks!" he answered them all quietly, because there was
nothing else that he could do until he had time to think. Miss Bridger
had risen and was smiling at him in friendly fashion, exactly as
if she had never run away from him and stayed away all the evening
because she was angry.
"I'll fix you a place," she announced briskly. "Of course you're
hungry. And if you want to wash off the dust of travel, there's plenty
of warm water out here in the kitchen. I'll get you some."
She may not have meant that for an invitation, but Billy followed her
into the kitchen and calmly shut the door behind him. She dipped warm
water out of the reservoir for him and hung a fresh towel on the
nail above the washstand in the corner, and seemed about to leave him
again.
"Yuh mad yet?" asked Billy, because he wanted to keep her there.
"Mad? Why?" She opened her eyes at him. "Not as much as you look," she
retorted then. "You look as cross as if--"
"What's the Pilgrim doing here?" Billy demanded suddenly and
untactfully.
"Who? Mr. Walland?" She went into the pantry and came back with a
plate for him. "Why, nothing; he's just visiting. It's Sunday, you
know."
"Oh--is it?" Billy bent over the basin, hiding his face from her. "I
didn't know; I'd kinda lost count uh the days." Whereupon he made
a great splashing in his corner and let her go without more
words, feeling more than ever that he needed time to think. "Just
visiting--'cause it's _Sunday_, eh? The dickens it is!" Meditating
deeply, he was very deliberate in combing his hair and settling his
blue tie and shaking the dust out of his white silk neckerchief
and retying it in a loose knot; so deliberate that Mama Joy was
constrained to call out to him: "Your dinner is getting cold, Mr.
Boyle," before he went in and took his seat where Miss Bridger had
placed him--and he doubted much her innocence in the matter--elbow to
elbow with the Pilgrim.
"How's shipping coming on, Billy?" inquired the Pilgrim easily,
passing to him the platter of roast beef. "Most through, ain't yuh?"
"The outfit's on the way in," answered Billy, accepting noncommittally
the meat and the overture for peace. "They'll be here in less than an
hour."
If the Pilgrim wanted peace, he was thinking rapidly, what grounds had
he for ignoring the truce? He himself had been the
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