You must wait till supper's over. Only her ungloved fingers, and the arms in their long tight sleeves as she held the heavy gun aloft, bore any sign of stiffness. "Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!" "Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know. No, never mind about thanking me. It was shameful, but again, her mother had prepared her for it. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. E. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd.
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