“But I never am alone, Mr. Barton,” protested the mild little voice.  “You see I always have the extra saddle, the extra railway ticket, the extra what-ever-it-is.  And—­and—­” Caressingly a little gold-tipped hand reached out through the shadows and patted something indistinctly metallic.  “My mother’s memory?  My father’s revolver?” she drawled.  “Why, what better company could any girl have?  Indiscreet?” Slowly the tip of her little nose tilted up into the light.  “Why, down in the Transvaal—­two years ago,” she explained painstakingly, “why, down in the Transvaal—­two years ago—­they called me the best-chaperoned girl in Africa.  Indiscreet?  Why, Mr. Barton, I never even saw an indiscreet woman in all my life.  Men, of course, are indiscreet sometimes,” she conceded conscientiously.  “Down in the Transvaal two years ago, I had to shoot up a couple of men for being a little bit indiscreet, but—­”

In one jerk Barton raised himself to a sitting posture.

“You ‘shot up’ a couple of men?” he demanded peremptorily.

Through the crook of a mud-smeared elbow shoving back the sodden brim of her hat, the girl glanced toward him like a vaguely perplexed little ragamuffin.  “It was—­messy,” she admitted softly.  Out from her snarl of storm-blown hair, tattered, battered by wind and rain, she peered up suddenly with her first frowning sign of self-consciousness.  “If there’s one thing in the world that I regret,” she faltered deprecatingly, “it’s a—­it’s—­an untidy fight.”

Altogether violently Barton burst out laughing.  There was no mirth in the laugh, but just noise.  “Oh, let’s go home!” he suggested hysterically.

“Home?” faltered little Eve Edgarton.  With a sluggish sort of defiance she reached out and gathered the big wet scrap-book to her breast.  “Why, Mr. Barton,” she said, “we couldn’t get home now in all this storm and darkness and wash-out—­to save our lives.  But even if it were moonlight,” she singsonged, “and starlight—­and high-noon; even if there were—­chariots—­at the door, I’m not going home—­now—­till I’ve finished my scrap-book—­if it takes a week.”

“Eh?” jerked Barton.  “What?” Laboriously he edged himself forward.  For five hours now of reckless riding, of storm and privation, through death and disaster, the girl had clung tenaciously to her books and papers.  What in creation was in them?  “For Heaven’s sake—­Miss Edgarton—­” he began.

“Oh, don’t fuss—­so,” said little Eve Edgarton.  “It’s nothing but my paper-doll book.”

“Your paper-doll book?” stammered Barton.  With another racking effort he edged himself even farther forward.  “Miss Edgarton!” he asked quite frankly, “are you—­crazy?”

[Illustration:  “Your paper-doll book?” stammered Barton]

“N—­o!  But—­very determined,” drawled little Eve Edgarton.  With unruffled serenity she picked up a pulpy magazine-page from the ground in front of her and handed it to him.  “And it—­would greatly facilitate matters, Mr. Barton,” she confided, “if you would kindly begin drying out some papers against your side of the lantern.”