"Red's" music had no charms to soothe the savage
breast of Henry Smith.
But another did like it. Angela once told "Red" in the moonlight--and her
father had never forgiven her for her foolishness--that his harmonica never
wearied her. That was enough for "Red." Once every day he managed to find
some excuse to get over to the Hardy ranch; and always his beloved
instrument went along with him in his pocket, and he would approach his
lady love's castle like the troubadours of old, his foot tapping on the
path while his harmonica, in the place of a lute, made soft sounds.
Instantly Angela would poke her pretty head from the window, and pretend
that she was a princess in distress, and he her knight who had come to
release her from her prison.
Moreover, the Hardys had a wonderful cook--a woman they had brought down
from Phoenix. Instead of the firecracker stuff that Uncle Henry so
bitterly complained of, she, being an Irish woman, could concoct a stew
that would make one's hair curl; and her pastry was succulent and sweet,
and literally melted in the mouth. Her coffee--ah! who could make better
coffee? And as the meals at the Jones ranch were served sporadically, and
"Red" was as healthy as a peasant and had never known the time when he
couldn't tuck away some dainty from the kitchen he ingratiated himself
with Mrs.
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