Mason's easy chuckle followed him, and Ford
swung about and faced him again.
"I haven't made any cast-iron promise--"
"Did I ask you to make any?" Mason's voice sharpened.
"But--Lordy me, Ches! How do you know I--"
"I know. That's enough."
"But--maybe I don't want the darned job. I never said--"
Mason was studying him, as a man studies the moods of an untamed horse.
"I didn't think you'd dodge," he drawled, and the blood surged
answeringly to Ford's cheeks. "You do want it."
"If I should happen to get jagged up in good shape, about the first
thing I'd do would be to lick the stuffing out of you for being such a
simple-minded cuss," Ford prophesied grimly, as one who knows well
whereof he speaks.
"Ye-es--but you won't get jagged."
"Oh, Lord! I wish you'd quit believing in me! You used to have some
sense," Ford grumbled. But he reached out and clenched his fingers upon
Mason's arm so tight that Mason set his teeth, and he looked at him
long, as if there was much that he would like to put into words and
could not. "Say! You're white clear down to your toes, Ches," he said
finally, and walked away hurriedly with his hat jerked low over his
eyes.
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