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He saw the bright vision of a small fortune placed in his hands as the result of a single gunplay. He had seen the schoolteacher. He knew by instinct that there was no fighting quality in Jig. And the moment he heard the location it was as good as cash in his pocket, he was sure. There was only one difficulty. He must beat out the sheriff.
Her taste in dress was peculiar, even eccentric, and Orham soon discovered that she, herself, was also somewhat eccentric. As a schoolteacher she was not an unqualified success. The "downstairs" curriculum was not extensive nor very exacting, but it was supposed to impart to the boys and girls of from seven to twelve a rudimentary knowledge of the three R's and of geography.
In the same afternoon another interview took place in Cedar Mountain. School-trustee Higginbotham was sitting in his office when the schoolteacher came up the boardwalk and into the insurance office. "Hello, Jack." "Hello, John"; and the visitor sat down. Higginbotham glanced at him and noticed that his face was drawn and his eyes "like holes burnt in a blanket."
Just now he thought he had never seen anything so fairylike and dainty, though he did not put it that way. Ben was not glib of thought or speech. He knew at once this was the new schoolteacher. He had heard of her coming, though at the time the conversation had interested him not at all. Bella knew who he was, too.
Then their hands fell apart, lingeringly. "Are you a schoolteacher, Emily?" he said. "Kindergarten. It's my first year. And don't call me Emily, please." "Why not? It's your name. I think it's the prettiest name in the world." Which he hadn't meant to say at all. In fact, he was perfectly aghast to find himself saying it. But he meant it.
He had a way of looking for a long moment at another before he spoke. All that he was about to say was first registered in his face. It was easy to understand how Sally Bent had been entrapped by the classic regularity of those features and the strange manner of the schoolteacher. She lived in a country where masculine men were a drug on the market. John Gaspar was the pleasant exception.
J. A. Harrison's house like a great white mountain, was far away in a delicious world where a certain schoolteacher was doing a wonderful work, shaping the destinies of future statesmen, and inspiring youthful minds and hearts with high and lofty ambitions.
These members who came that morning comprised about one-fourth of those who formerly had been in the habit of dropping in for a chat, and their numbers were a fair indication of the fact that those who from various motives took the part of the schoolteacher in Brampton were as one to three. It is not necessary to repeat their expressions of indignation and sympathy. There was a certain Mr.
Whatever it was, it kept Gaspar staring down into the lean face of Sinclair for a long moment. Then he went resolutely back into the living room and faced Sally Bent; Jerry was already waiting outdoors. "I'm not going," said Gaspar slowly. "I'll stay." Sally cried out. "Oh, Jig, have you lost your nerve ag'in? Ain't you got no courage?" The schoolteacher sighed. "I'm afraid not, Sally.
It was not that he wished to bring the schoolteacher to trouble, but it had angered him to see one girl balk seven grown men. "Stand aside," said Riley Sinclair. "Not an inch!" "Lady, I'll move you." "Stranger, if you touch me, you'll be taught better. The gents in Sour Creek don't stand for suchlike ways!"
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