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Updated: June 3, 2025
The story had been substantially the same as that which, once before, he had related to Cherry Malotte; but now the facts were deeply, intimately colored with all the young man's natural enthusiasm and inmost personal feeling.
"Anything new and exciting?" inquired Bronco, mildly interested. "The last I heard was about the Judge's niece, Miss Chester." Cherry Malotte turned abruptly, while the Kid slowly lowered the front legs of his chair to the floor. "What was it?" she inquired. "Why, it seems she compromised herself pretty badly with this fellow Glenister coming up on the steamer last spring.
Cherry Malotte had experienced a new sensation, and she didn't like it. She vowed angrily that she disliked men who looked past her; indeed, she could not recall any other who had ever done so. Her chief concern had always been to check their ardor. She resolved viciously that before she was through with this young man he would make her a less listless adieu.
It was perhaps four hours after midnight when a man sought him out. "Somebody's callin' you on the Assay Office telephone says it's life or death." Glenister hurried to the building, which had escaped the shock of the explosions, and, taking down the receiver, was answered by Cherry Malotte. "Thank God, you're safe," she began. "The men have just come in and the whole town is awake over the riot.
It's just as well that you don't." "I am sure Mr. Glenister would not talk of me." There was a pause. "Who is Miss Malotte?" He studied for a moment, while she watched him. What a splendid figure he made in his evening clothes! The cosey room with its shaded lights enhanced his size and strength and rugged outlines. In his eyes was that admiration which women live for.
The revelation came with a shock, and she arose, trying to mask her confusion. "Thank you so much for your kindness. I'm quite myself now and I must go." Her change of face could not escape the quick perceptions of one schooled by experience in the slights of her sex. Times without number Cherry Malotte had marked that subtle, scornful change in other women, and reviled herself for heeding it.
"Don't look at me like that before I've had my coffee." "Maybe you know him in San Flancisco, eh?" "No, no! We never heard of him until last night." "I guess you lie!" She smiled at them wheedlingly, but Boyd reassured her. "No! We don't know him at all." "Then what for you speak his name?" "Miss Malotte told us about him at dinner." "Oh!"
The door to Hilliard's office opened, and he heard the rustle of a woman's dress; then his own name spoken "Come in, Mr. Emerson." His attention centred on the approaching interview, he did not glance toward the departing visitor until she stopped suddenly at the outer door, and came straight toward him with outstretched hands. "Boyd!" He checked himself, and turned to face Cherry Malotte.
"Do you know?" "You heard, didn't you? She's Miss Malotte, and she's certainly some considerable lady." The same look that Emerson had noted when their hostess introduced herself to them flitted again into the crook's unsteady eyes. "Yes, but who is she? What does this mean?" Emerson pointed to the provisions and fittings about them. "What is she doing here alone?"
A man must have some God; he can't worship his own image." Cherry Malotte turned slowly to the landing-place and made her way into the launch. All the way back she kept silence, and Boyd, confused by her attack upon the citadel of his faith and strangely sore at heart, made no effort at speech. "Fingerless" Fraser met him at the water's edge.
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