"It's important, Mr. Gray. Business which can't wait," she
clicked urgently. "I'll be back before Eight is due. Please."
Miss Georgie did not often send that last word of her own
volition. All up and down the line she was said to be
"Independent as a hog on ice"--a simile not pretty, perhaps, nor
even exact, but frequently applied, nevertheless, to self-reliant
souls like the Hartley operator.
Be that as it may, she received gracious permission to lock the
office door from the outside, and she was not long in doing so,
and heaved a great sigh of relief when it was done. She went
straight to the store, and straight back to where Pete Hamilton
was leaning over a barrel redolent of pickled pork. He came up
with dripping hands and a treasure-trove of flabby meat, and
while he was dangling it over the barrel until the superfluous
brine dripped away, she asked him for a horse.
"I dunno where Saunders is again," he said, letting his consent
be taken for granted. "But I'll go myself and saddle up, if
you'll mind the store.
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