Vic languidly removed himself from the door jamb and with a parting “I should bibble,” started back to his goats, which he had refused to graze outside the Basin as Holman Sommers advised.  Helen May began valiantly to struggle with the fine, symmetrical, but almost unreadable chirography of the man of many words.  She succeeded in transcribing the human polyp properly lithified and correctly constituting the strata of the psychozoic age, when Vic stuck his head in at the door again.

“From the des-urt he comes to thee-ee-ee,
And he’s got a dog for thee to see-ee.”

He paraphrased mockingly, going down to that terrifically deep-sea bass note of a boy whose voice is changing.

Helen May threw her eraser at him and missed.  It went hurtling out into the yard and struck Starr on the point of the jaw, as he was riding up to the cabin.

Whereat Vic gave a brazenly exultant whoop and rushed off to his goats, bellowing raucously: 

“When you wore a too-lup, a sweet yellow too-lup ’N I wore a big red ro-o-ose—­”

and looking back frequently in a half curious, half wistful way.  Vic, if you will stop to think of it, had been transplanted rather suddenly from the midst of many happy-go-lucky companions to an isolation lightened only by a mere sister’s vicarious comradeship.  If he yearned secretly for a share of Starr’s interest, surely no one can blame him; but that he should voluntarily remove himself from Starr’s presence in the belief that he had come to see Helen May exclusively, proves that Vic had the makings of a hero.

Starr dismounted and picked up the eraser from under the investigative nose of a coarse-haired, ugly, brown and black dog that had been following Rabbit’s heels.  He took the eraser to Helen May, standing embarrassed in the doorway, and the dog followed and sniffed first her slipper toes and then her hands, which she held out to it ingratiatingly; after which appraisement the dog waggled its stub of a tail in token of his friendliness.

“If you was a Mexican he’d a showed you his teeth,” Starr observed pridefully.  “How are you, after your jaunt the other night?”

“Just fine,” Helen May testified graciously.  It just happened (or had it just happened?) that she was dressed that day in a white crepe de chine blouse and a white corduroy skirt, and had on white slippers and white stockings.  At the top button of her blouse (she could not have touched that button with her chin if she had tried) was a brown velvet bow the exact shade of her eyes.  Her hair was done low and loose with a negligent wave where it turned back from her left eyebrow.  Peter had worshipped dumbly his Babe in that particular dress, and had considered her beautiful.  One cannot wonder then that Starr’s eyes paid tribute with a second long glance.

Starr had ridden a good many miles out of his way and had argued for a good while, and had finally paid a good many dollars to get the dog that sniffed and wagged at Helen May.  The dog was a thoroughbred Airedale and had been taught from its puppyhood to herd goats and fight all intruders upon his flock and to hate Mexicans wherever he met them.  He had learned to do both very thoroughly, hence the argument and the dollars necessary before Starr could gain possession of him.