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Updated: June 29, 2025
Every time he touched the foot-brake, she could feel the strain in the tendons of her own ankle. A mile down the main road they stopped at a store-post-office to telephone back to Mr. Boltwood and Dr. Beach. On the porch was a man in overalls and laced boots. He was lean and quick-moving.
The moment Claire saw the doctor's thin demanding face, she trusted him. He spoke to Mr. Boltwood with assurance: "All you need is some rest, and your digestion is a little shaky. Been eating some pork? Might stay here a day or two. We're glad to have a glimpse of Easterners." Mr. Boltwood went to bed in the Beaches' guest-room. Mrs.
Her father came puffing and lip-pursing and jolly, to take her to dinner. Mr. Boltwood had no tearing meditations; he had a healthy interest in soup. But he glanced at her, across the bright, sleek dining-table; he seemed to study her; and suddenly Claire saw that he was a very wise man.
They came into North Yakima at breakfast time, and found the house of Mr. Kloh, a neat, bare, drab frame box, with tight small front and back yards. Dlorus was awake, and when she wasn't yawning, she was enjoying being hysterical. "Miss Boltwood," she whined, "you go in and jolly him up." Milt begged, "Better let me do it, Claire." They looked squarely at each other.
For she had spent an hour talking to one Dakota farmer, genial-eyed, quiet of speech. He had explained the relation of alfalfa to soil-chemistry; had spoken of his daughter, who taught economics in a state university; and asked Mr. Boltwood how turbines were hitched up on liners.
"Are you Miss Boltwood?" It was as startling as the same question would have been in a Chinese village. "W-why, yes." "Somebody trying to get you on the long-distance 'phone." "Me? 'Phone?" She was trembling. "Something's happened to Milt. He needs me!" She could not manage her voice, as she got the operator on the farmers'-line wire, and croaked, "Was some one trying to get Miss Boltwood?" "Yes.
Fire snapped in the motor wizard's eyes, and his voice, although it was like velvet, cut like steel. Burton saw there was no use trying to hang back. "If Wynn hadn't made me work for a little money," growled Burton, "this wouldn't 'a' happened." "What's that?" "Nothing." Boltwood had jumped to the rocks, and was holding the boat by the painter.
We don't see but mighty few of those through here. Glad I could help you." "Ah yes, Mr. Daggett." Mr. Boltwood was uninterestedly fumbling in his money pocket. Behind Milt Daggett, Claire shook her head wildly, rattling her hands as though she were playing castanets. Mr. Boltwood shrugged. He did not understand. His relations with young men in cheap raincoats were entirely monetary.
Usually, too, her passengers waited for her to start the conversation, and talked at Mr. Boltwood rather than directly to her. But the bristly man spat at her as the car started, "Going far?" "Ye-es, some distance." "Expensive car?" "Why " "'Fraid of getting held up?" "I hadn't thought about it." "Pack a cannon, don't you?" "I don't think I quite understand." "Cannon! Gun! Revolver!
I don't mind being annoyed myself, but I really feel I must protect Mr. Boltwood." "What can I do?" "My dear sir, since you brought him here " It was the potassium cyanide and cracked ice and carpet tacks and TNT and castor oil in Jeff's "My dear sir" that did it. Milt discovered himself on his feet, bawling, "I am not your dear sir!
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