"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! Pinky is my
guest, and---- Gee, sorry I lost my temper, Claire, terrible sorry. See
you along the road. Good night. Pink! You take your hat! Git!"
Milt followed Pinky out of the door, snarling, "Git in the car, and do
it quick. I'll take you clear to Blewett Pass. We drive all night."
Pinky was of great silence and tact. Milt lumped into the bug beside
him. But he did not start the all-night drive. He wanted to crawl back,
on his knees, to apologize to Claire--and to be slapped by Jeff Saxton.
He compromised by slowly driving a quarter of a mile up the road, and
camping there for the night.
Pinky tried to speak words of philosophy and cheer--just once he tried
it.
For hours, by a small fire, Milt grieved that all his pride was gone in
a weak longing to see Claire again. In the morning he did see
her--putting off on the lake, in a motor-boat with Jeff and Mr.
Barmberry. He saw the boat return, saw Jeff get into the car which had
brought him from Kalispell, saw the farewell, the long handclasp, the
stoop of Jeff's head, and Claire's quick step backward before Jeff could
kiss her. But Claire waved to Jeff long after his car had started.
* * * * * When Claire and her father came along in the Gomez, Milt was standing by
the road. She stopped. She smiled. "Night of sadness and regrets? You
were fairly rude, Milt. So was Mr. Saxton, but I've lectured him, and he
sends his apologies."
"I send him mine--'deed I do," said Milt gravely.
"Then everything's all right. I'm sure we were all tired. We'll just
forget it."
"Morning, Daggett," Mr. Boltwood put in. "Hope you lose that dreadful
red-headed person."
"No, I can't, Mr. Boltwood. When Mr. Saxton turned on me, I swore I'd
take Pinky clear through to Blewett Pass ... though not to Seattle, by
golly!"
"Foolish oaths should be broken," Claire platitudinized.
"Claire--look---- You don't really care so terribly much about these
little luxuries, food and fixin's and six-dollar-a-day-hotel junk, do
you?"
"Yes," stoutly, "I do."
"But not compared with mountains and----"
"Oh, it's all very well to talk, and be so superior about these dear old
grandeurs of Nature, and the heroism of pioneers, and I do like a
glimpse of them. But the niceties of life do mean something and even if
it is weak and dependent, I shall always simply adore them!"
"All these things are kind of softening." And he meant that she was
still soft.