Then, being a sensible
person, she laughed away her emotion, for the time being, and invited
Pete in to supper.
Pete thought Doris's sister a mighty nice girl, plumb sensible and not
a bit stuck up. And later, when this "plumb sensible" person declared
that she was rather tired and excused herself and disappeared, after
bidding Pete good-night, he knew that she was a sensible person. He
couldn't see how she could help it, being the sister of Doris.
"So I'll be sayin' good-night," stated Pete a few minutes later, as he
stood by the door, proud and straight and as vital as a flame.
But he didn't say it, at least coherently. Doris's hand was on his
sleeve. Pete thought she had a mighty pretty hand. And as for her
eyes--they were gray and misty and warm . . . and not at all like he
had ever seen them before. He laughed happily, "You look plumb
lonesome!" he said.
"I--I was."
Pete dropped his hat, but he did not know it until, well--several
minutes later, when Doris gave it to him.
It was close to midnight when a solitary policeman, passing down a side
street, heard a nocturnal singer inform dark and empty High Street that
he was
"The Ridin' Kid from Powder River,"--
with other more or less interesting details.
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