He had spent two
nights at a little wooden hotel, which was not the one where Winston
put up when he drove into the place, and to pass the time commenced a
flirtation with the proprietor's daughter. The girl was pretty, and
Courthorne a man of different type from the wheat-growers she had been
used to. When his horse was at the door, he strolled into the saloon
where he found the girl alone in the bar.
"I'm a very sad man, to-day, my dear," he said, and his melancholy
became him.
The girl blushed prettily. "Still," she said, "whenever you want to,
you can come back again."
"If I did would you be pleased to see me?"
"Of course!" said the girl. "Now, you wait a minute, and I'll give you
something to remember me by. I don't mix this up for everybody."
She busied herself with certain decanters and essences, and Courthorne
held the glass she handed him high.
"The brightest eyes and the reddest lips between Winnipeg and the
Rockies!" he said. "This is nectar, but I would like to remember you
by something sweeter still!"
Their heads were not far apart when he laid down his glass, and before
the girl quite knew what was happening, an arm was round her neck.
Next moment she had flung the man backwards, and stood very straight,
quivering with anger and crimson in face, for Courthorne, as
occasionally happens with men of his type, assumed too much, and did
not always know when to stop. Then, she called sharply, "Jake!"
There was a tramp of feet outside, and when a big grim-faced man looked
in at the door, Courthorne decided it was time for him to effect his
retreat while it could be done with safety.
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