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We rushed into the kitchen, meeting Pa Hinkle coming out with two cups of hot coffee in his hands.
"Where's Ileen?" we asked, in recitative.
Pa Hinkle was a kindly man. "Well, gents," said he, "it was a sudden notion she took; but I've got the money, and I let her have her way.
She's gone to a corn--a conservatory in Boston for four years for to have her voice cultivated. Now, excuse me to pa.s.s, gents, for this coffee's hot, and my thumbs is tender."
That night there were four instead of three of us sitting on the station platform and swinging our feet. C. Vincent Vesey was one of us. We discussed things while dogs barked at the moon that rose, as big as a five-cent piece or a flour barrel, over the chaparral.
And what we discussed was whether it is better to lie to a woman or to tell her the truth.
And as all of us were young then, we did not come to a decision.
