“The old man takes a squint at those red ones and begins to size up my feet. I stage one frenzied protest. After they’d choked me into submission and crowded my feet into those red button shoes they start me off to school and my worst fears are realized. Right down to this day I can’t set round in company without wanting to shove my feet somewhere out of sight. Well, that same night I steal the old man’s pistol and drop out the window. I ain’t ever been back. That seems to have soured me on red for all time. I wouldn’t even put red paint on my barn. That’s why I don’t run to loud colors; a quiet lavender shirt, maybe, for Sundays, or a soft black-and-orange check if I want to dress up, but no red for me.” It was quite evident that he intended to hold the conversation to purely casual channels. She knew now that he had not misunderstood her; that he had assumed full responsibility for the affair, realizing that it would react against him but believing that it would be easier for her in the end if he were the one to go through with it instead of Bart. He had known that he was locking himself outside and that explanations would be of no avail so he was deliberately avoiding the topic. “That’s how I came to leave home,” he resumed. “If ever you note any symptoms of madness in one of your pupils, why instead of chastizing him regardless, I’d suggest that you institute a search for the red button shoes in the background. Big events hinge on such trifles. Now if I’d have stepped on a bee like Ella Cranston did--I forgot to mention that I left those shoes behind in exchange for the pistol and set out barefooted--it’s likely I’d have turned back and developed into a first-rate barber or a banker in place of winding up as a bronc fighter. Does Ella still persist in wearing shoes even in bright balmy weather?” “Oh, Don! Why did you?” Molly interrupted suddenly. “It was due to come sometime; he’d already tried for me twice,” Carver said, instantly altering his vein of speech to accord with her own. “So I might as well have it out right then, I figured, and keep Bart out of it all. Then he got Brad. Brad was my friend.” “I’m sorry, Don; terribly sorry,” she said. “Don’t you!” he admonished. “It just had to come up the way it did, seems like. You’d rather it was me than Bart.” “I wouldn’t!” she denied fiercely. “Oh! I wouldn’t! I’d a thousand times rather it was Bart!” She hung her spurs up into her pony’s flanks and the little horse darted off up the road. Carver stood looking after her. “And I didn’t know,” he said. “I didn’t find out till it was just too late. Don’t that beat hell!” XIII