Hegan, elaborating a new and dazzling legal vision, became aware that Daylight was not listening.
His eyes had gone lack-lustre, and he, too, was seeing with inner vision.
"Got it" he cried suddenly.
"Hegan, congratulate me.
It's as simple as rolling off a log.
All I've got to do is hit him on the nose, and hit him hard."
Then he explained to the startled Hegan, and became a good listener again, though he could not refrain now and again from making audible chuckles of satisfaction and delight.
That was the scheme.
Bob always whirled to the right.
Very well.
He would double the quirt in his hand and, the instant of the whirl, that doubled quirt would rap Bob on the nose.
The horse didn't live, after it had once learned the lesson, that would whirl in the face of the doubled quirt.
More keenly than ever, during that week in the office did Daylight realize that he had no social, nor even human contacts with Dede.
The situation was such that he could not ask her the simple question whether or not she was going riding next Sunday.
It was a hardship of a new sort, this being the employer of a pretty girl.
He looked at her often, when the routine work of the day was going on, the question he could not ask her tickling at the founts of speech—Was she going riding next Sunday?
And as he looked, he wondered how old she was, and what love passages she had had, must have had, with those college whippersnappers with whom, according to Morrison, she herded and danced.
His mind was very full of her, those six days between the Sundays, and one thing he came to know thoroughly well; he wanted her.
And so much did he want her that his old timidity of the apron-string was put to rout.
He, who had run away from women most of his life, had now grown so courageous as to pursue.
Some Sunday, sooner or later, he would meet her outside the office, somewhere in the hills, and then, if they did not get acquainted, it would be because she did not care to get acquainted.
Thus he found another card in the hand the mad god had dealt him.
How important that card was to become he did not dream, yet he decided that it was a pretty good card.
In turn, he doubted.
Maybe it was a trick of Luck to bring calamity and disaster upon him.
Suppose Dede wouldn't have him, and suppose he went on loving her more and more, harder and harder?
All his old generalized terrors of love revived.
He remembered the disastrous love affairs of men and women he had known in the past.
There was Bertha Doolittle, old Doolittle's daughter, who had been madly in love with Dartworthy, the rich Bonanza fraction owner; and Dartworthy, in turn, not loving Bertha at all, but madly loving Colonel Walthstone's wife and eloping down the Yukon with her; and Colonel Walthstone himself, madly loving his own wife and lighting out in pursuit of the fleeing couple.
And what had been the outcome?
Certainly Bertha's love had been unfortunate and tragic, and so had the love of the other three.
Down below Minook, Colonel Walthstone and Dartworthy had fought it out.
Dartworthy had been killed.
A bullet through the Colonel's lungs had so weakened him that he died of pneumonia the following spring.
And the Colonel's wife had no one left alive on earth to love.
And then there was Freda, drowning herself in the running mush-ice because of some man on the other side of the world, and hating him, Daylight, because he had happened along and pulled her out of the mush-ice and back to life.
And the Virgin.... The old memories frightened him.
If this love-germ gripped him good and hard, and if Dede wouldn't have him, it might be almost as bad as being gouged out of all he had by Dowsett, Letton, and Guggenhammer.
Had his nascent desire for Dede been less, he might well have been frightened out of all thought of her.
As it was, he found consolation in the thought that some love affairs did come out right.
And for all he knew, maybe Luck had stacked the cards for him to win.
Some men were born lucky, lived lucky all their days, and died lucky.
Perhaps, too, he was such a man, a born luck-pup who could not lose.
Sunday came, and Bob, out in the Piedmont hills, behaved like an angel.
His goodness, at times, was of the spirited prancing order, but otherwise he was a lamb.
Daylight, with doubled quirt ready in his right hand, ached for a whirl, just one whirl, which Bob, with an excellence of conduct that was tantalizing, refused to perform.
But no Dede did Daylight encounter.
He vainly circled about among the hill roads and in the afternoon took the steep grade over the divide of the second range and dropped into Maraga Valley.
Just after passing the foot of the descent, he heard the hoof beats of a cantering horse.
It was from ahead and coming toward him.