The Little Lady of the Big House / Маленькая хозяйка большого дома. Книга для чтения на английском языке

“It is the Fotherington Princess,” Paula breathed softly. Again Mountain Lad trumpeted his call, and Dick chanted:

“Hear me! I am Eros! I stamp upon the hills!”

And almost, for a flash of an instant, circled soft and close in his arms, Paula knew resentment of her husband’s admiration for the splendid beast. And the next instant resentment vanished, and, in acknowledgment of due debt, she cried gaily:

“And now, Red Cloud! the Song of the Acorn!” Dick glanced half absently to her from the pamphlet folded on his finger, and then, with equal pitch of gaiety, sang:

“The acorns come down from heaven!
I plant the short acorns in the valley!
I plant the long acorns in the valley!
I sprout, I, the black-oak acorn, sprout, I sprout!”

She had impressed herself very close against him during his moment of chanting, but, in the first moments that succeeded she felt the restless movement of the hand that held the finger-marked hog-pamphlet[137] and caught the swift though involuntary flash of his eye to the clock on his desk that marked 11:25. Again she tried to hold him, although, with equal involuntariness, her attempt was made in mild terms of resentment.

“You are a strange and wonderful Red Cloud,” she said slowly. “Sometimes almost am I convinced that you are utterly Red Cloud, planting your acorns and singing your savage joy of the planting. And, sometimes, almost you are to me the ultramodern man, the last word of the two-legged, male human that finds Trojan adventures in sieges of statistics, and, armed with test tubes and hypodermics, engages in gladiatorial contests with weird microorganisms. Almost, at times, it seems you should wear glasses and be bald-headed; almost, it seems…”

“That I have no right of vigor to possess an armful of girl,” he completed for her, drawing her still closer. “That I am a silly scientific brute who doesn’t merit his ‘vain little breath of sweet rose-colored dust.’ Well, listen, I have a plan. In a few days…”

But his plan died in birth, for, at their backs, came a discreet cough of warning, and, both heads turning as one they saw Bonbright, the assistant secretary, with a sheaf of notes on yellow sheets in his hand.

“Four telegrams,” he murmured apologetically. “Mr. Blake is confident that two of them are very important. One of them concerns that Chile shipment of bulls…”

And Paula, slowly drawing away from her husband and rising to her feet, could feel him slipping from her toward his tables of statistics, bills of lading[138], and secretaries, foremen, and managers.

“Oh, Paula,” Dick called, as she was fading through the doorway; “I’ve christened the last boy – he’s to be known as Oh Ho.’ How do you like it?”

Her reply began with a hint of forlornness that vanished with her smile, as she warned:

“You will play ducks and drakes with the house-boys’ names.”

“I never do it with pedigreed stock,” he assured her with a solemnity belied by the challenging twinkle in his eyes.

“I didn’t mean that,” was her retort. “I meant that you were exhausting the possibilities of the language. Before long you’ll have to be calling them Oh Bel, Oh Hell, and Oh Go to Hell. Your ‘Oh’ was a mistake. You should have started with ‘Red.’ Then you could have had Red Bull, Red Horse, Red Dog, Red Frog, Red Fern – and, and all the rest of the reds.”

She mingled her laughter with his, as she vanished, and, the next moment, the telegram before him, he was immersed in the details of the shipment, at two hundred and fifty dollars each, F. O. B.[139], of three hundred registered yearling bulls to the beef ranges of Chile. Even so, vaguely, with vague pleasure, he heard Paula sing her way back across the patio to her long wing of house; though he was unaware that her voice was a trifle, just the merest trifle, subdued.

Chapter VIII

Five minutes after Paula had left him, punctual to the second, the four telegrams disposed of, Dick was getting into a ranch motor car, along with Thayer, the Idaho buyer, and Naismith, the special correspondent for the Breeders’ Gazette. Wardman, the sheep manager, joined them at the corrals where several thousand young Shropshire rams had been assembled for inspection.

There was little need for conversation. Thayer was distinctly disappointed in this, for he felt that the purchase of ten carloads of such expensive creatures was momentous enough to merit much conversation[140].

“They speak for themselves,” Dick had assured him, and turned aside to give data to Naismith for his impending article on Shropshires in California and the Northwest.

“I wouldn’t advise you to bother to select them,” Dick told Thayer ten minutes later. “The average is all top. You could spend a week picking your ten carloads and have no higher grade than if you had taken the first to hand.”