“Uh-huh,” said Hank again, smoothing the lower half of his face with one hand. “You're a mighty nice little boy, Bud. I'll bet Mona thinks so, too and when yuh get growed up you'll know a whole lot more than yuh do right now. Well, I guess I'll be moving. When yuh get that--er--story done, you'll come back to the ranch, I reckon. Be good.” Thurston watched him ride away, and then flounced, oh, men do flounce at times, in spirit, if not in deed; and there would be no lack of the deed if only they wore skirts that could rustle indignantly in sympathy with the wearer--to his room. Plainly, Hank did not swallow the excuse any more readily than did his conscience. To prove the sincerity of his assertion to himself, his conscience, and to Hank Graves, he straightway got out a thick pad of paper and sharpened three lead pencils to an exceeding fine point. Then he sat him down by the window--where he could see the kitchen door, which was the one most used by the family--and nibbled the tip off one of the pencils like any school-girl. For ten minutes he bluffed himself into believing that he was trying to think of a title; the plain truth is, he was wondering if Mona would go for a ride that afternoon and if so, might he venture to suggest going with her. He thought of the crimply waves in Mona's hair, and pondered what adjectives would best describe it without seeming commonplace. “Rippling” was too old, though it did seem to hit the case all right. He laid down the pad and nearly stood on his head trying to reach his Dictionary of Synonyms and Antonyms without getting out of his chair. While he was clawing after it--it lay on the floor, where he had thrown it that morning because it refused to divulge some information he wanted--he heard some one open and close the kitchen door, and came near kinking his neck trying to get up in time to see who it was. He failed to see anyone, and returned to the dictionary. “'Ripple--to have waves--like running water.'” (That was just the way her hair looked, especially over the temples and at the nape of her neck--Jove, what a tempting white neck it was!) “Um-m. 'Ripple; wave; undulate; uneven; irregular.'” (Lord, what fools are the men who write dictionaries!) “'Antonym--hang the antonyms!” The kitchen door slammed. He craned again. It was Jack--going to town most likely. Thurston shrewdly guessed that Mrs. Stevens leaned far more upon Mona than she did upon Jack, although he could hardly accuse her of leaning on anyone. But he observed that the men looked to her for orders.