“I think you do well to hurry, Miss Cantire,” he said as she passed. “I've lost sight of the coach for some time, and I dare say they're already waiting for us at the summit.” Miss Cantire did not like this any better. To go on beside this dreadful man, scrambling breathlessly after the stage--for all the world like an absorbed and sentimentally belated pair of picnickers--was really TOO much. “Perhaps if YOU ran on and told them I was coming as fast as I could,” she suggested tentatively. “It would be as much as my life is worth to appear before Foster without you,” he said laughingly. “You've only got to hurry on a little faster.” But the young lady resented this being driven by a “drummer.” She began to lag, depressing her pretty brows ominously. “Let me carry your flowers,” said Boyle. He had noticed that she was finding some difficulty in holding up her skirt and the nosegay at the same time. “No! No!” she said in hurried horror at this new suggestion of their companionship. “Thank you very much--but they're really not worth keeping--I am going to throw them away. There!” she added, tossing them impatiently in the dust. But she had not reckoned on Boyle's perfect good-humor. That gentle idiot stooped down, actually gathered them up again, and was following! She hurried on; if she could only get to the coach first, ignoring him! But a vulgar man like that would be sure to hand them to her with some joke! Then she lagged again--she was getting tired, and she could see no sign of the coach. The drummer, too, was also lagging behind--at a respectful distance, like a groom or one of her father's troopers. Nevertheless this did not put her in a much better humor, and halting until he came abreast of her, she said impatiently: “I don't see why Mr. Foster should think it necessary to send any one to look after me.” “He didn't,” returned Boyle simply. “I got down to pick up something.” “To pick up something?” she returned incredulously. “Yes. THAT.” He held out the card. “It's the card of our firm.” Miss Cantire smiled ironically. “You are certainly devoted to your business.” “Well, yes,” returned Boyle good-humoredly. “You see I reckon it don't pay to do anything halfway. And whatever I do, I mean to keep my eyes about me.” In spite of her prejudice, Miss Cantire could see that these necessary organs, if rather flippant, were honest. “Yes, I suppose there isn't much on that I don't take in. Why now, Miss Cantire, there's that fancy dust cloak you're wearing--it isn't in our line of goods--nor in anybody's line west of Chicago; it came from Boston or New York, and was made for home consumption! But your hat--and mighty pretty it is too, as YOU'VE fixed it up--is only regular Dunstable stock, which we could put down at Pine Barrens for four and a half cents a piece, net. Yet I suppose you paid nearly twenty-five cents for it at the Agency!”