Page:The Keeper of the Bees.pdf/439

 Jamie roared.

“No,” he said, “I don’t think Nannette’s favourite adjective would have worked. I don’t think even she would have thought the lady on her departure looked keen.”

“She’ll have to make a straight shot for the dressing room,” said the little Scout, “and put on her war paint and feathers the best she can.”

“Do you really think she will go?” asked Jamie.

The little Scout heaved a deep sigh.

“I don’t give two Apache war whoops whether she goes or whether she stays. The pony I’m bettin’ my money on in this race is one that tells me that that lady ain’t ever comin’ back to the Sierra Madre Apiary. She’s had her dose of treat ’em rough, and I bet she ain’t weepin’ for more, not a mountain pressure hose, nor Black Germans in the eye, nor nothin’! She got her share, if I did have to tear up your marigolds to give it to her!”

"For goodness sake! don’t worry about a hole as big as a wash tub when you have just got through saving me an acre!”

“All right, then,” said the Scout Master. “If that’s the way you feel about it, it suits me. Do you mind if I just fool around a little while?”

Jamie knew what that meant. It meant that his little partner would go and creep up on the foot of his bed and fall sound asleep, and he thought that would be the best thing that could possibly happen. So he said he did not mind in the least because he and John Carey were