One July night Madame Bo-Peep and her ranch manager were sitting on
the east gallery. Teddy had been exhausting the science of
prognostication as to the probabilities of a price of twenty-four
cents for the autumn clip, and had then subsided into an anesthetic
cloud of Havana smoke. Only as incompetent a judge as a woman would
have failed to note long ago that at least a third of his salary must
have gone up in the fumes of those imported Regalias.
"Teddy," said Octavia, suddenly, and rather sharply, "what are you
working down here on a ranch for?"
"One hundred per," said Teddy, glibly, "and found."
"I've a good mind to discharge you."
"Can't do it," said Teddy, with a grin.
"Why not?" demanded Octavia, with argumentative heat.
"Under contract. Terms of sale respect all unexpired contracts. Mine
runs until 12 P. M., December thirty-first. You might get up at
midnight on that date and fire me. If you try it sooner I'll be in a
position to bring legal proceedings."
Octavia seemed to be considering the prospects of litigation.
"But," continued Teddy cheerfully, "I've been thinking of resigning
anyway."
Octavia's rocking-chair ceased its motion. There were centipedes in
this country, she felt sure; and Indians, and vast, lonely, desolate,
empty wastes; all within strong barbed-wire fence.
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