Ainslee's Magazine, February 1913 — page 120: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

110 her distress. She seemed to be quite alone. “At any rate,” she smiled, “you saved the only thing of value on the hat. Thank you ever so much.” She was turning away to the saloon door when Horace, with a quick step, was at her side. He liked the plucky ‘way in which she had accepted her mis- hap. He knew that to a woman the loss of her headgear was little short of ca- lamity—almost to be ranked with dis- ease and sudden death. “Say,” he abruptly questioned, “‘what are you going to do for a lid ” He caught himself, confused, and added: “TI mean, something to wear up there?” He pointed to her wind-tossed yel- low hair, the while he pulled the door open for her. She stepped inside, and when he had followed faced him laugh- ingly. “IT am going to see what the stew- ardess can find for me,” she said. “I can’t go all the way to Linthrop with- out a—a lid.” The young fellow’s eyes lighted up. “You are going to Linthrop? So am I. Never mind the stewardess, unless Say, did you save any skewers? T mean hatpins?” The girl shook her head. “No. Everything went except what you saved.” She mournfully regarded the ostrich feather. “All right,” spoke up Horace cheer- fully. “Now, where’s your room? What’s the number ?” She studied him a moment before replying, looking him squarely in the eye. It was a straightforward, honest brown eye that returned her gaze. And so, covertly amused at the authoritative air he had assumed, she indicated a door across the way, and said: “That is it—number two hundred and ten.” “Well, go to it, and wait till I come,” commanded Horace. “I'll fix you up O. K. I’ve got it all doped out.” Taking consent for granted, he swung off down the cabin. ‘The girl watched the well-knit figure making its way through the crowd. There was something about it that inspired con- AINSLEE’S fidence, a sense of protection. Not that she felt the need of protection; she was used to taking care of herself; but it . was a pleasant sensation, just the same, and she was disposed to enjoy it. And then the spirit of adventure had breathed upon her, was dancing before her eyes like a will-o’-the-wisp. She would follow it a little way, at least. So. she went into her stateroom, and smoothed out her hair, and did things to her face and hands after the manner of woman from princess down to peas- ant. When presently a triple knock sounded on her door—imperative as the summons of the law—she opened it, and stood upon the threshold with all the sweet humility of an Esther seeking favor with the king. Horace held out to her, not a scepter, but a roughrider hat banded with a silver cord. With this he offered a hat- pin. Its head was a hideous knob of brass and glass. “It’s a brand-new bonnet,” he re- marked. “I bought it to loaf around in at Linthrop. The pin I got from the stewardess. Don’t strike me—I did the best I could. They caught the man who made it, and sent him up for life. And, say, my name is Horace Atkins. Single, solitary, and sick—though I’m getting better every minute.” The girl responded quickly: “T am Miss Kitty Randall, and’— she laughed lightly—‘I never felt bet- ter in my life.” “Good!” said Horace, and reaching out he seized her hand and shook it cordially. Then he added: “If you'll just pull the brim of that cady down on one side and shove it up on the other you'll look like a four-time winner. I'll wait for you while you put it on.” He watched her as she stepped to the mirror opposite and adjusted the hat to her head. She found it becom- ing, and so did he. She could see it in his eyes. “Now,” he suggested, when she had come out into the saloon, “what do you say to something to eat?” At this she shrank a little from him. “Oh, I had something before we CONMUC OOK (C@