“Would she?  God bless her!” He stared sentimentally at the photograph.

“Yes, she would.  She’d let you know that a girl may be round—­an’ soft—­an’ innocent—­and a holy terror, too, when a big, blundering galoot of a dep’ty-sheriff talks o’ loving somebody to whom he’s never been introduced, and never likely to be, neither.”

Jeff looked up in amazement.

“Why, Bud; why, sonny—­ye’re real mad!  Why, you silly little whipper-snapper, ye don’t think I’d talk that way if the young lady was around.  Great Scot!  Look ye here!  Now—­now I ain’t goin’ to hurt ye any.  Come nearer.  Ye won’t?  Well, then, don’t!  But, strictly between ourselves, I’ll tell ye something, although it’s agen myself.  If your sister was here, right now, I—­I’m so doggoned bashful—­I wouldn’t have a word to say—­that’s a fact.”

“I wish she were here,” said Bud, savagely.

“Now, Bud; that’s a real nasty one.  Ye don’t mean that.  Did I hurt yer shoulder, sonny?”

“Hurt it?  I’ll bet it’s black and blue most already.”

“I’ll bet it ain’t.  Pull down your shirt, an’ let’s see.  Black and blue?  You air a little liar.”

Bud slowly pulled up the sleeve of his faded blue jumper.  Hand and wrist were burnt brown by the sun, but above, the flesh was white and soft.  Just below the elbow flamed the red and purple marks left by Jeff’s fingers.

“The shoulder’s a sight worse than that,” said Bud sulkily.  Jeff displayed honest concern.

“Pore little Bud,” said he, patting the boy’s hand which lay in his own.  “It is lucky fer me Miss Sadie ain’t round.  I reckon she would fix me for this.  And I shouldn’t have a word for her, as I was tellin’ ye.  She’d think me the biggest kind of a mug.”

So speaking, he picked up the photograph and half slipped it into the case.

“Twon’t do fer me to look at her,” he murmured; “but if ever there was a case——­”

“Eh?”

“Never mind.”

“What were you going to say?”

“Somethin’ very fullish.”

“Say it, Jeff.  I’ll not give ye away to Sadie.  Honest, I won’t.”

“I believe,” said Jeff solemnly, “that I’ve got it where the bottle got the cork.  It’s a curious sort o’ feeling, not unpleasant, but kind o’ squirmy.”

“What in thunder are you at?”

“It’s love, Bud—­love at first sight.  Now, mind—­yer not to give me away.  I’m in love end over end with your sister.  Don’t git mad!  She’ll never know it.”

“Are you often taken this way?”

“Never before, by Jing!  That’s what’s so queer.  Mebbee I pitched on my head.  Mebbee I’m delirious.”

“Mebbee you always were—­half-baked.  Looks like it, I must say.  Give me the case.”

“Any more sisters, Bud?  I reckon not.  The mould must ha’ been broke when Miss Sadie was born.  One’ll make trouble enough for we men.  Is there another, Bud?”