The Forfeit | Page 3

them.
She was proud of him, this father who went through the world trusting
human nature, and handling cattle as only an artist in his profession can
handle them.
Then her dancing eyes sought the face of Jeffrey Masters. Her smile
remained, but a subtle something crept into their depths as she surveyed
it. It was the handsome, clean-cut face of a purposeful man. There was
a straight-forward directness in the gaze of his blue eyes. It was the
face of a man who has no fear, physical or moral. It was almost too
uncompromising in its fearlessness.
Nan knew its every line by heart. She had thought of it, dreamed of it,
since the time when she had first realized that a woman's life is wholly
incomplete without the care of a man upon her hands. Sometimes she
had felt that Jeffrey Masters possessed depths which could never be
fathomed. Depths of strength, of resource, and all those qualities which
make for success. Sometimes she even went further, when her
analytical faculties--which she possessed in an unusual degree--were
most active. She felt that the possession of all these firm qualities had
rather smothered, to an extent, the gentler emotions of the human
nature in him. He was strong, passionate, with a conscience of an
almost puritanical order, and somehow she felt that a little softening, a
little leavening of human weakness would have been all to the good.
But this understanding made no difference to her woman's regard,
unless it were to strengthen it to a sort of gentle worship such as
woman is always ready to yield to strength. It required no effort upon
her part to picture this man in the heroic mould of a Spartan warrior.
"'That,'" she replied, with a whimsical smile, "is a man, who most
generally seems to fancy his own way of doing things." Then she shook
her head as her arm slipped protectingly around the big man's bronzed
neck. "I don't guess a woman's argument ever made a man see things
different yet. What's he done, Jeff?"
Jeff laughed without humor.

"Done?" he exclaimed. Then, with a shake of the head: "It's not what
he's done. Guess it's what he hasn't done, and what he don't seem to
figure to do. I'd kind of raised a hope when I saw you in the window.
But--well, it was only her father's daughter that came in, I guess."
Then he drew his papers toward him again, and glanced seriously at the
figures.
"It's Nat's farm," he explained. "And it's the thing we've been waiting
on years. We're getting it fixed right, and your Bud's just about as much
help as a deaf mute at a talking bee. I hand him figgers, and--and he
smiles, just smiles. I hand him facts, and--he keeps on smiling. It's the
kind of smile you most generally see on a dog-tired feller's face when
you hand him a funny story. He don't care a cuss anyway. He's figuring
to hand Nat ten thousand dollars with no more kick than a government
spending public money. He don't kick reasonably or unreasonably, and
I'd gamble you a new hat he hasn't a notion what he's getting for it. It
makes me feel like a 'hold-up,' and I say it's not fair to me--nor to
himself--nor to--you."
Jeff was serious enough. In such affairs it would have been difficult to
find him otherwise. Nan understood. These two men had long been her
profound study. Her smiling regard remained unchanging while the
man was talking. When he ceased she bent over her father in a
caressing fashion.
"He'd lose his bet. He surely would, daddy dear, wouldn't he? But we
really need to answer, don't we? He'd think we were both fools, else.
He wouldn't like it either. Say, daddy, shall--shall I talk?"
Bud chuckled comfortably.
"I'd hate to stop you, Nan."
Nan smiled contentedly, and raised a pair of challenging eyes in the
direction of the table.
"My daddy thinks I talk too much," she said. "But I s'pose that's my

way--most girls talk when they get the chance--just the same as it's his
way talking too little. But neither ways suggest a fool, Jeff. And
anyway the only sort of fool you need to worry with is the fool who
don't see and act in a way of his own. My daddy's acting in his own
way, and I guess it isn't his way, working overtime with the band
playing. If you're dead fixed on having a gamble, it's a new hat to a new
and less smelly pipe than you're smoking now, that he knows the inside
of this deal to the last cent's worth. But what's more, Jeff, he knows you,
and knows you couldn't 'hold-up' a Sunday-school kiddie without