"Oh, I'm all right," he replied
listlessly.
"Come to next Saturday's dance at the Coyote; that'll put dynamite in
your blood," prescribed the other as he spurred his horse on.
Banneker had no need to turn the dun pony aside to the branch trail that
curved to the door of his guest; the knowing animal took it by habitude,
having traversed it daily for a long time. It was six months since
Banneker had bought him: six months and a week since Willis Enderby had
been buried. And the pony's rider had in his pocket a letter, of date
only four days old, from Willis Enderby to Camilla Van Arsdale. It was
dated from the Governor's Mansion, Albany, New York. Banneker had
written it himself, the night before. He had also composed nearly a
column of supposed Amalgamated Wire report, regarding the fight for and
against Governor Enderby's reform measures, which he would read
presently to Miss Van Arsdale from the dailies just received. As he
dismounted, the clear music of her voice called:
"Any mail, Ban?"
"Yes. Letter from Albany."
"Let me open it myself," she cried jealously.
He delivered it into her hands: this was part of the ritual. She ran her
fingers caressingly over it, as if to draw from it the hidden sweetness
of her lover's strength, which must still be only half-expressed,
because the words were to be translated through another's reading; then
returned it to its real author.
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