Man to Man | Page 7

he galloped up the long lane,
turned in at a gate sagging wearily upon its hinges, and rode to the door
of the lighted house. The first glance showed him that it was a long,
low, rambling affair resembling in dejectedness the drooping gate. An
untidy sort of man in shirt-sleeves and smoking a pipe came to the door,
kicking into silence his half-dozen dogs.
"What's the chance of something to eat and a place to sleep in the
barn?" asked Packard.
The rancher waved his pipe widely.
"Help yourself, stranger," he answered, in a voice meant to be
hospitable but which through long habit had acquired an unpleasantly
sullen tone. "You'll find the sleeping all right, but when it comes to
something to eat you can take it from me you'll find damn' poor picking.
Get down, feed your horse, and come in."
When he entered the house Packard was conscious of an oddly bare and
cheerless atmosphere which at first he was at a loss to explain. For the
room was large, amply furnished, cheerfully lighted by a crackling fire
of dry sticks in the big rock fireplace, and a lamp swung from the
ceiling. What the matter was dawned on him gradually: time was when
this chamber had been richly, even exquisitely, furnished and appointed.
Now it presented rather a dejected spectacle of faded splendor, not
entirely unlike a fine gentleman of the old school fallen among bad
companions and into tattered ill repute.
The untidy host, more untidy than ever here in the full light, dragged
his slippered feet across the threadbare carpet to a corner cupboard,
from which he took a bottle and two glasses.
"We can have a drink anyhow," he said in that dubious tone which so
harmonized both with himself and his sitting-room. "After which we'll
see what's to eat. Terry fired the cook last week and there's been small
feasting since."
Packard accepted a moderate drink, the rancher filled his own glass

generously, and they drank standing. This ceremony briefly performed
and chairs dragged comfortably up to the fireplace, Packard's host
called out loudly:
"Hi, Terry! There's a man here wants something to eat. Anything left?"
"If he's hungry," came the cool answer from a room somewhere toward
the other end of the long house, "why can't he forage for himself?
Wants me to bring his rations in there and feed it to him, I suppose!"
Packard lifted his eyebrows humorously.
"Is that Terry?" he asked.
"That's Terry," grumbled the rancher. "She's in the kitchen now. And if
I was you, pardner, and had a real hankering for grub I'd mosey right
along in there while there's something left." His eye roved to the bottle
on the chimneypiece and dropped to the fire. "I'll trail you in a minute."
Here was invitation sufficient, and Packard rose swiftly, went out
through the door at the end of the room, passed through an untidy
chamber which no doubt had been intended originally as a dining-room,
and so came into lamplight again and the presence of Miss Blue Cloak.
He made her a bow and smiled in upon her cheerfully. She, perched on
an oilcloth-covered table, her booted feet swinging, a thick sandwich in
one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other, took time to look
him up and down seriously and to swallow before she answered his
bow with a quick, bird-like nod.
"Don't mind me," she said briefly, having swallowed again. "Dig in and
help yourself."
On the table beside her were bread, butter, a very dry and black-looking
roast, and a blacker but more tempting coffee-pot.
"I didn't follow you on purpose," said Packard. "Back there where the
roads forked I saw that you had turned to the left, so I turned to the

right."
"All roads lead to Rome," she said around the corner of the big
sandwich. "Anyway, it's all right. I guess I owe you a square meal and a
night's lodging for being on the job when my car stalled."
"Not to mention for diving into the lake after you," amended Packard.
"I wouldn't mention it if I were you," she retorted. "Seeing that you just
made a fool of yourself that time."
She openly sniffed the air as he stepped by her reaching out for
butcher-knife and roast. "So you are dad's kind, are you? Hitting the
booze every show you get. The Lord deliver me from his chief blunder.
Meaning a man."
"He probably will," grinned Packard genially. "And as for turning up
your nose at a fellow for taking a drop o' kindness with a hospitable
host, why, that's all nonsense, you know."
Terry kicked her high heels impudently and vouchsafed him no further
answer beyond that easy gesture. Packard made his own