"I wish he had waited till after the meeting to go to Latour's. He
spoiled the last chance I had. There's no use now," he said, sadly.
"But he may do something," I suggested.
"Oh, fiddle!" said The Pilot, contemptuously. "He was only giving Muir
'a song and dance,' as he would say. The whole thing is off."
But when I told Gwen the story of the night's proceedings, she went into
raptures over Bill's grave speech and his success in drawing the canny
Scotchman.
"Oh, lovely! dear old Bill and his 'cherished opinion.' Isn't he just
lovely? Now he'll do something."
"Who, Bill?"
"No, that stupid Scottie." This was her name for the immovable Robbie.
"Not he, I'm afraid. Of course Bill was just bluffing him. But it was
good sport."
"Oh, lovely! I knew he'd do something."
"Who? Scottie?" I asked, for her pronouns were perplexing.
"No!" she cried, "Bill! He promised he would, you know," she added.
"So you were at the bottom of it?" I said, amazed.
"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" she kept crying, shrieking with laughter over
Bill's cherishing opinions and desires. "I shall be ill. Dear old Bill.
He said he'd 'try to get a move on to him.'"
Before I left that day, Bill himself came to the Old Timer's ranch,
inquiring in a casual way "if the 'boss' was in.
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