He arrived at last and went straight to his room, to wash up. Hilda nearly burst with impatience before he finally came down, the crinkled black-and-silver hair smooth and damp, the whole man soberly spick and span. They sat opposite each other at the dining-table, from which many leaves had been taken out to make it a suitable size for two, as they had so often sat before, served by the Chinaman. They talked as usual, but the thing they did not mention was, as ever in such cases, biggest in the conversation. “Don’t wiggle your feet so much, Pettie. And eat that fine, juicy beefsteak. Your Uncle Hank fetched that quarter of beef all the way from the C Bar C especially so his little girl could have nice fresh steak, and Sam’s broiled it just right.” “I will, Uncle Hank,” and Hilda made a violent attack on her portion of steak. She kept the letter of the law. She never mentioned the carriage in words; but it pretty nearly wheeled out of her eyes every time she looked at Uncle Hank—and he saw it. She came nearest to breaking silence on the forbidden subject when at last he got up from the table and said, with a touch of embarrassment, that he must go over to the bunk house and see the boys about some work for to-morrow. Hilda did not ask to go along, as she often did; she only said: “All right, Uncle Hank,” and added suddenly, “Aunt Val and Burchie will be here in time.” Hank asked no questions and made no comments. He just took his hat and went, after a somewhat lengthened and considering survey of her. She had not meant to follow. But the moment the door closed, her feet walked her very softly and very quickly after him. The tall old man strode along the path that led from the side door, around the corner of Sam Kee’s vegetable garden, and in the dusk Hilda’s little figure flitted from bush to bush, behind him. She halted quite a distance away, at the last bush that was big enough to hide her, and there she gazed and listened, fascinated. Uncle Hank stood at the edge of the porch, talking to one of the boys. He didn’t speak very loud. “Carriage” was the first word she got; then, “There’s some things that ought to be did, and there’s some things that just has to be did.” His grammar alone would have assured Hilda that he was very much in earnest, as he finished, “This here’s one of the kind that has to be did.” She saw Shorty squared up before Uncle Hank, half sheepish, half puzzled. “Er—I was thinking of trying for that silver trimmed sombrero they offer for the best gentleman rider.” The lamp shine from inside showed him grinning broadly. “You know I sure can ride pretty when I try.” “Ride pretty!” grunted old Snake, leaning in the doorway. “I ain’t never seen it. I’ll allow you can rope a little.” “Well,” cut in Hank, “it’s come right down to this: Charley’s buckboard is a wreck. It just can’t be drove no more. The ambulance is all we’ve got to take Miss Val and the kiddies out in, and it’s not very much better.”