“Le’s go across the street,” she said in a breathless voice, and pulled him forward.

Her body as she pulled was pressed tightly against him.  She seemed to hang upon him.  And all to the discomfort and mental anguish of Racey Dawson.  He was no prude.  His moral sense had never oppressed him.  But this calm appropriation of him was too much.  But he accompanied her.  For there was Swing Tunstall, a nothing if not interested observer.  Other folk as well were spectators.  To shake loose Marie’s grip, to run away from her, would make him ridiculous.  He continued to accompany the young woman quite as if her kidnapping of him was a matter of course.

In the middle of the street they were halted by the headlong approach of a rapidly driven buckboard.  As it swept past in front of them the light of the lantern clamped on the dashboard flashed on their faces.

“’Lo, Mr. Dawson,” cried the driver, her fresh young voice lifting to be heard above the drum of the hoofs and the grind of the rolling wheels.  And the voice was the voice of Miss Molly Dale.

Racey did not reply to the greeting.  He was too dumb-foundedly aghast at the mischance that had presented him, while arm in arm with a person of Marie’s stamp, to the eyes of one upon whom he was striving to make an impression.  What would Molly Dale think?  The worst, of course.  How could she help it?  Appearances were all against him.  Then he recalled that she had been the sole occupant of the buckboard—­that she had called him by name after the light had fallen on the face of the lookout.  It was possible that she might not know who Marie was.  Although it was no more than just possible, he cuddled the potentiality to him as if it had been a purring kitten.

He allowed Marie to lead him across the sidewalk and into the pot-black shadow between Tom Kane’s house and an empty shack.  But here in the thick darkness he paused and looked back to see whether Swing Tunstall were following.  Swing was not.  He was entering the hotel in company with Windy Taylor.

Marie jerked at his arm.  “C’mon,” she urged, impatiently.  “Gonna take root, or what?”

Willy-nilly he accompanied his captor to the extremely private and secluded rear of Tom Kane’s new barn.  Here were the remains of a broken wagon, several wheels, and the major portion of a venerable and useless stove.  Marie released his arm and Racey sat down on the stove.  But it was a very useless stove, and it collapsed crashingly under his weight (later he learned that even when it had been a working member of Tom Kane’s menage the stove had been held together mainly by trust in the Lord and a good deal of baling wire).

“Clumsy!” Marie hissed as he arose hurriedly.  “All thumbs and left feet!  Why don’t you make a li’l more noise?  I’ll bet you could if you tried.”

“Say,” Racey snapped, temperishly, for a sharp corner of the stove door had totally obscured his sense of proportion, “say, I didn’t ask to come over here with you!  What do you want, anyway?”