"Here," I said, "is where we will begin."
So I turned back to the barn. I had not reached the other side of the
orchard when who should I see but Dick Sheridan himself, coming in at
the lane gate. He had an old, coarse-woven straw hat stuck resplendently
on the back of his head. He was carrying his scythe jauntily over his
shoulder and whistling "Good-bye, Susan" at the top of his capacity.
Dick Sheridan is a cheerful young fellow with a thin brown face and
(milky) blue eyes. He has an enormous Adam's apple which has an odd way
of moving up and down when he talks--and one large tooth out in front.
His body is like a bundle of wires, as thin and muscular and enduring as
that of a broncho pony. He can work all day long and then go down to the
lodge-hall at the Crossing and dance half the night. You should really
see him when he dances! He can jump straight up and click his heels
twice together before he comes down again! On such occasions he is
marvellously clad, as befits the gallant that he really is, but this
morning he wore a faded shirt and one of his suspender cords behind was
fastened with a nail instead of a button. His socks are sometimes pale
blue and sometimes lavender and commonly, therefore, he turns up his
trouser legs so that these vanities may not be wholly lost upon a dull
world.
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