The Vagrant Duke. Gibbs George
III
THE OVERALL GIRL
They stood for a long moment regarding each other, both in curiosity; Peter because of the contrariety of the girl's face and garments, the girl because of Peter's bow, which was the most extraordinary thing that had ever happened in Burlington County. After a pause, a smile which seemed to have been hovering uncertainly around the corners of her lips broke into a frank grin, disclosing dimples and a row of white teeth, the front ones not quite together.
"Could you tell me," asked Peter very politely as he found his voice, "if this road leads to Black Rock?"
She was still scrutinizing him, her head, birdlike, upon one side.
"That depends on which way you're walkin'," she said.
She dropped her "g" with careless ease, but then Peter had noticed that many Americans and English people, some very nice ones, did that.
Peter glanced at the girl and then down the road in both directions.
"Oh, yes, of course," he said, not sure whether she was smiling at or with him. "I came from a station called Pickerel River and I wish to go to Black Rock."
"You're sure you want to go there?"
"Oh, yes."
"I guess that's because you've never been to Black Rock, Mister."
"No, I haven't."
The girl picked a shrub and nibbled at it daintily.
"You'd better turn and go right back." Her sentence finished in a shrug.
"What's the matter with Black Rock?" he asked curiously.
"It's just the little end of nothin'. That's all," she finished decisively.
The quaint expression interested him. "I must get there, nevertheless," he said; "is it far from here?"
"Depends on what you call far. Mile or so. Didn't the 'Lizzie' meet the six-thirty?"
Peter stared at her vacuously, for this was Greek.
"The 'Lizzie'?"
"The tin 'Lizzie' – Jim Hagerman's bus – carries the mail and papers. Sometimes he gives me a lift about here."
"No. There was no conveyance of any sort and I really expected one. I wish to get to Mr. Jonathan K. McGuire's."
"Oh!"
The girl had been examining Peter furtively, as though trying vainly to place him definitely in her mental collection of human bipeds. Now she stared at him with interest.
"Oh, you're goin' to McGuire's!"
Peter nodded. "If I can ever find the way."
"You're one of the new detectives?"
"Detective!" Peter laughed. "No. Not that I'm aware. I'm the new superintendent and forester."
"Oh!"
The girl was visibly impressed, but a tiny frown puckered her brow.
"What's a forester?" she asked.
"A fellow who looks after the forests."
"The forests don't need any lookin' after out here in the barrens. They just grow."
"I'm going to teach them to grow better."
The girl looked at him for a long moment of suspicion. She had taken off her hat and the ruddy sunlight behind her made a golden halo all about her head. Her hands he had noted were small, the fingers slender. Her nose was well shaped, her nostrils wide, the angle of her jaw firmly modeled and her slender figure beneath the absurd garments revealed both strength and grace. But he did not dare to stare at her too hard or to question her as to her garments. For all that Peter knew it might be the custom of Burlington County for women to wear blue denim trousers.
And her next question took him off his guard.
"You city folk don't think much of yourselves, do you?"
"I don't exactly understand what you mean," said Peter politely, marking the satirical note.
"To think you can make these trees grow better!" she sniffed.
"Oh, I'm just going to help them to help themselves."
"That's God's job, Master."
Peter smiled. She wouldn't have understood, he thought, so what was the use of explaining. There must have been a superior quality in Peter's smile, for the girl put on her hat and came down into the road.
"I'm goin' to Black Rock," she said stiffly, "follow me." And she went off with a quick stride down the road.
Peter Nichols took up his bag and started, with difficulty getting to a place beside her.
"If you don't mind," he said, "I'd much rather walk with you than behind you."
She shrugged a shoulder at him.
"Suit yourself," she said.
In this position, Peter made the discovery that her profile was quite as interesting as her full face, but she no longer smiled. Her reference to the Deity entirely eliminated Peter and the profession of forestry from the pale of useful things. He was sorry that she no longer smiled because he had decided to make friends at Black Rock and he didn't want to make a bad beginning.
"I hope you don't mind," said Peter at last, "if I tell you that you have one of the loveliest voices that I have ever heard."
He marked with pleasure the sudden flush of color that ran up under her delicately freckled tan. Her lips parted and she turned to him hesitating.
"You – you heard me!"
"I did. It was like the voice of an angel in Heaven."
"Angel! Oh! I'm sorry. I – I didn't know any one was there. I just sing on my way home from work."
"You've been working to-day?"
She nodded. "Yes – Farmerettin'."
"Farmer – ?"
"Workin' in the vineyard at Gaskill's."
"Oh, I see. Do you like it?"
"No," she said dryly. "I just do it for my health. Don't I look sick?"
Peter wasn't used to having people make fun of him. Even as a waiter he had managed to preserve his dignity intact. But he smiled at her.
"I was wondering what had become of the men around here."
"They're so busy walkin' from one place to another to see where they can get the highest wages, that there's no time to work in between."
"I see," said Peter, now really amused. "And does Mr. Jonathan McGuire have difficulty in getting men to work for him?"
"Most of his hired help come from away – like you – But lately they haven't been stayin' long."
"Why?"
She slowed her pace a little and turned to look at him curiously.
"Do you mean that you don't know the kind of a job you've got?"
"Not much," admitted Peter. "In addition to looking after the preserve, I'm to watch after the men – and obey orders, I suppose."
"H-m. Preserve! Sorry, Mr. what's your name – "
"Peter Nichols – " put in Peter promptly.
"Well, Mr. Peter Nichols, all I have to say is that you're apt to have a hard time."
"Yes, I'm against it!" translated Peter confidently.
The girl stopped in the middle of the road, put her hands on her hips and laughed up at the purpling sky. Her laugh was much like her singing – if angels in Paradise laugh (and why shouldn't they?). Then while he wondered what was so amusing she looked at him again.
"Up against it, you mean. You're English, aren't you?"
"Er – yes – I am."
"I thought so. There was one of you in the glass factory. He always muffed the easy ones."
"Oh, you work