Jake tip-toed to the door and peered cautiously forth, heaving a huge sigh of relief at the new development. "Better run him in the stable, Jake," advised Buck. "An’ take some o’ th’ sweat off ’n him. Take yore time. We ’ll wait. You see," he went on to Rose, "none of th’ boys is up; but Ned ought to be here right soon. An’ Pickles, Pickles ’ll be that pleased he won’t eat nothin’. Pickles says yo ’re a brick an’ he likes you ’most as well as Whit." Her bubbling laughter set Buck to laughing in sympathy and they stood, one at either side the table, looking at each other like two happy children, moved to mirth by they knew not what. "It is a disappointment I have not come before, M’sieu Peters," said Rose, "you make me so very welcome. But Whit—who is Whit?" "Whit? Oh, he’s th’ Britisher we took on when—when we went short a hand. He ’s willin’ an’ strong an’ learns quick, though he shore has some amazin’ ideas about cows." The momentary clouding of her face as she recalled how he had "gone short a hand," he allowed to pass without comment and went gayly on. "Pickles, he likes to hear him tell stories; fairy stories, you might call them, but they ain’t like no fairy stories I ever heard. An’ he tells ’em like he believes ’em. I ain’t right certain he don’t. Pickles does. You would n’t think a kid like that would take to fairy stories, would you, ma’am?" "No-o. Always he is for the grand minute—to be a man, to ride, to throw the rope,—like that. And to shoot—he must not shoot, M’sieu Peters." "Well, you see, ma’am, he—you—I—" he was clearly embarrassed, but Truth and Buck were Siamese twins and always moved in pairs. Hot and uncomfortable as it made him, he had to confess. "Why, he ’s just naturally boun’ to shoot. Yesterday I give him a rifle an’ a big bunch o’ cartridges. He won’t hurt nothin’, ma’am." "_Mais non_—I hope not. Make him to be—to be good. A strong man can be good, M’sieu Peters?"