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"When the bell rang, I was so afraid something had happened to Di," said Ina sighing. "Let's see," said Di's father. "Where is little daughter to-night?" He must have known that she was at Jenny Plow's at a tea party, for at noon they had talked of nothing else; but this was his way. And Ina played his game, always. She informed him, dutifully. "Oh, ho," said he, absently.
Baffled, thwarted, bewildered, Di went over to Jenny Plow's and there imparted understanding by the simple process of letting Jenny guess, to questions skilfully shaped. When Dwight said, "Look at my beautiful handkerchief," displayed a hole, sent his Ina for a better, Lulu, with a manner of haste, addressed him: "Dwight. It's a funny thing, but I haven't Ninian's Oregon address." "Well?"
It was a striking face, the union of black hair, blue eyes, and, usually, ruddy color on the high cheek bones, 'as if painted ... at the plow's tail, Lady Eastlake remarked, and she was an artist. Harriet Martineau remarks that he was as 'yellow as a guinea, but this would be due to some temporary gastric disturbance.
The two men were close beside him now. "Number one-eleven's kicked over the hill!" "One-eleven kicked over?" "Yes. Snowplow. They're wiring Denver, from Crestline. The second plow's up there in the snowshed with the crew. One of 'em's dead. The other's wait a minute, I have to piece it together."
Then finally, as from far away, a strained voice came, the operator's: "Ice had gotten packed on the rails already. One-eleven tried to keep on without a pick and shovel gang. Got derailed on a curve just below Crestline and went over. One-twelve's crew got the men up. The plow's smashed to nothing. Fifty-three thousand dollars' worth of junk now. Wait a minute here's Denver."
"Then that is checked off," said Mr. Deacon heartily. Bobby wavered toward the door, emerged on the porch, and ran almost upon Di returning from her tea-party at Jenny Plow's. "Oh, Bobby! You came to see me?" She was as fluffy, as curly, as smiling as her picture. She was carrying pink, gauzy favours and a spear of flowers. Undeniably in her voice there was pleasure.
"To the smith's; one of the free preemptors has a forge some distance off, and if I'm lucky, I may find him at home." "You won't find him at home if you stop here." "That's obvious," said Charnock. "Still, you see, the plow's too heavy for me to lift out. Unless I do get it out, I can't try to put the wheel right." "Then why not take it to pieces?"
Blackbirds clucked in the furrow and squat badgers watched with jealous eye the plow's inexorable progress toward their dens. The weather was perfect June. Fleecy clouds sailed like snowy galleons from west to east, the wind was strong but kind, and we worked in a glow of satisfied ownership.
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