HER way seemed hesitant and apologetic, for all the brave dash she had made from the door of the Racket Store. The flash that burned in her face was not all due to the scorching heat that beat up, intensified by the reflection, from McPacken's dust-white street as she stood an indecisive moment a little distance from Mrs. Cowgill and Banjo Gibson, seated in comfort on the green bench beside the hotel door.
"Was you wantin' to see somebody?" Mrs. Cowgill inquired, turning casually, feigning a business interest that she did not feel, suppressing a greater one that she would not confess.
"I'm taking subscriptions for a work—a book—this book," the girl said, appealing from face to face with her serious, unsophisticated, wide-open brown eyes. "May I sit here a little while and tell you—show it to you?"
Mrs. Cowgill moved along a little, although there was ample room at her end of the bench, signifying by the shift that the stranger was to sit beside her, and not by the side of Banjo Gibson. Banjo found
