"Why, yes," he responded, obeying promptly; "I expect Mustard's been doin' a lot of wonderin' why I didn't get off before." If he had meant to imply that her invitation had been tardy he had hit the mark fairly, for Miss Radford nibbled her lips with suppressed mirth. The underplay of meaning was not the only subtleness of the speech, for the tone in which it had been uttered was rich in interrogation, as though its author, while realizing the pony's dimness of perception, half believed the animal had noticed Miss Radford's lapse of hospitality. "I'm thinkin' you are laughin' at me again, ma'am," he said as he came to the edge of the porch and stood looking up at her, grinning. "Do you think I am laughing?" she questioned, again biting her lips to keep them from twitching. "No-o. I wouldn't say that you was laughin' with your lips--laughin' regular. But there's a heap of it inside of you--tryin' to get out." "Don't you ever laugh inwardly?" she questioned. He laughed frankly. "I expect there's times when I do." "But you haven't lately?" "Well, no, I reckon not." "Not even when you thought your horse might have noticed that I had neglected to invite you off?" "Did I think that?" he questioned. "Of course you did." "Well, now," he drawled. "An' so you took that much interest in what I was thinkin'! I reckon people who write must know a lot." Her face expressed absolute surprise. "Why, who told you that I wrote?" she questioned. "Nobody told me, ma'am. I just heard it. I heard a man tell another man that you had threatened to make him a character in a book you was writin'." Her face was suddenly convulsed. "I imagine I know whom you mean," she said. "A young cowboy from the Two Diamond used to annoy me quite a little, until one day I discouraged him." His smile grew broad at this answer. But he grew serious instantly. "I don't think there is much to write about in this country, ma'am," he said. "You don't? Why, I believe you are trying to discourage me!" "I reckon you won't listen to me, ma'am, if you want to write. I've heard that anyone who writes is a special kind of a person an' they just can't help writin'--any more'n I can help comin' over here to see your brother. You see, they like it a heap." They both laughed, she because of the clever way in which he had turned the conversation to his advantage; he through sheer delight. But she did purpose to allow him to dwell on the point he had raised, so she adroitly took up the thread where he had broken off to apply his similitude. "Some of that is true," she returned, giving him a look on her own account; "especially about a writer loving his work. But I don't think one needs to be a 'special' kind of person. One must be merely a keen observer."