A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill

								

understand, and blithely skipping those she could not, extracting
meanwhile a vast amount of pleasure out of each passing day. For the
thing that differentiated Miss Lady from the rest of her fellow kind was
that she was usually glad. She liked to get up in the morning and to
go to bed at night, a peculiarity in itself sufficiently great to
individualize her. She greeted each new experience with enthusiasm and
managed to extract the largest possible quota of happiness out of the
smallest and most insignificant occasion.
As she went singing through the hall, the Colonel tried to frown
over his glasses, but he was only partially successful. She was too
satisfying a sight with her shining hair and eyes, and lithe, supple
figure, every motion of which bespoke that quick, unconscious freedom of
body peculiar to children and those favored of the gods, who never grow
old.
The tall, awkward young man who had by this time arrived at the porch,
followed the Colonel's gaze, and then, without speaking, sat down on the
steps and clasped his hands about his knees. Noah Wicker's awkwardness,
however manifest to others, was evidently a matter of small moment to
him. He had apparently accepted the companionship of unmanageable arms
and legs without question, and without embarrassment. His stubby blond
hair rose straight from a high, broad forehead, and grew down in square
patches in front of his ears. His eyes, small and steady, surveyed the
world with profound indifference.
When Miss Lady disappeared the Colonel turned upon him suddenly:
“What about this rich young fellow over at your house? Who is he
anyhow?”
“Morley?” Noah crossed his knees deliberately. “Why, he's a
brother-in-law of Mr. Sequin.”
“Not Basil Sequin, the president of the People's Bank! You don't say!”
The Colonel paused for a moment to digest this fact, then he went on:
“Hell-bent on farming I hear; wants your father to look around for a
place.”
This not being in the form of a question, Noah conserved his energies.
“Don't amount to a hill of beans, I'll warrant,” continued the Colonel,
with a watchful eye on Noah for denial or confirmation, but Noah was
noncommittal. “When a fellow gets to be twenty-three years old and can't
find anything better to do than to run around the country spending his
money, and playing with the girls, there's a screw loose somewhere. What
does he know about stock-farming?”
“Says he's been reading up.”
“Fiddlesticks!” roared the Colonel. “You can't learn farming out of a
book! What does he know about horses?”
“Oh! He's on to horses all right,” Noah grinned ambiguously. “You and I
couldn't teach him anything about horses.”
“Can he shoot?”
“Can't hit a barn door.”
The Colonel heaved a deep sigh, drained the last drops from his tumbler,
then leaned forward, confidentially:
“Noah Wicker, do you like that young chap?”