"I guess there ain't many of 'em get a write-up like that." He put the
book aside and began a second attack on the supper. "Crowder's some
friend. His little finger's worth more'n the whole kit and crew you've
had danglin' round you since you started."

"You're right." She stretched her hand for a fig, spilling, bruised and
bursting, from the torn bag. "There's a new one dangling."

With her father Pancha was always truthful. To the rest of the world she
lied whenever she thought it necessary, never carelessly or prodigally,
for to be fearless was part of her proud self-sufficiency. But as she had
learned to fight, to battle her way up, to climb over her enemy, to wrest
her chance from opposing forces, she had learned to lie when the occasion
demanded. She was only entirely frank and entirely truthful with the one
person whom she loved.

He put down his glass and looked at her, in sudden, fixed attention.

"What's that?"

"I've got a real, genuine, all-wool-yard-wide beau."

She leaned her elbows on the table, holding the fig to her mouth, her
thin fingers manipulating the skin as she sucked the pulp. Her eyes were
full of laughter.

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I'm telling you. You needn't look like I'd said he was a
defaulting bank cashier, nor so surprised either. It ain't flattering to