"Lucy, I've done it now--played hob, sure," said Slone.
"What?" she cried.
"I called your dad--called him good an' hard--an' he--he--"
"Lin! Oh, don't say Dad." Lucy's face whitened and she put a swift hand upon
his arm--a touch that thrilled him. "Lin! there's blood--on your face.
Don't--don't tell me Dad hit you?"
"I should say not," declared Slone, quickly lifting his hand to his face.
"Must be from my cut, that blood. I barked my hand holdin' Wildfire."
"Oh! I--I was sick with--with--" Lucy faltered and broke off, and then drew
back quickly, as if suddenly conscious of her actions and words.
Then Slone began to relate everything that had been said, and before he
concluded his story his heart gave a wild throb at the telltale face and eyes
of the girl.
"You said that to Dad!" she cried, in amaze and fear and admiration. "Oh, Dad
richly deserved it! But I wish you hadn't. Oh, I wish you hadn't!"
"Why?" asked Slone.
But she did not answer that. "Where are you going?" she questioned.
"Come to think of that, I don't know," replied Slone, blankly.
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