There was
nothing in the coat now that could possibly have startled the
girl or annoyed her. Whatever had been there that caused her
extremely peculiar conduct she had carried away with her. Peter
had settled convictions concerning Linda. From the first instant
he had looked into her clear young eyes as she stood in
Multiflores Canyon triumphantly holding aloft the Cotyledon in
one hand and with the other struggling to induce the skirt of her
blouse to resume its proper location beneath the band of her
trousers, he had felt that her heart and her mind were as clear
and cool and businesslike as the energetic mountain stream
hurrying past her. Above all others, "straight" was the one
adjective he probably would have applied to her. Whatever she
had taken from Henry's pockets was something that concerned her.
If she took anything, she had a right to take it; of that Peter
was unalterably certain. He remembered that a few days before
she practically had admitted to him that Anderson had annoyed
her, and a slow anger began to surge up in Peter's carefully
regulated heart. His thoughts were extremely busy, but the thing
he thought most frequently and most forcefully was that he would
thoroughly enjoy taking Henry Anderson by the scruff of the neck,
leading him to the sheerest part of his own particular share of
the mountain, and exhaustively booting him down it.
"It takes these youngsters to rush in and raise the devil where
there's no necessity for anything to happen if just a modicum of
common sense had been used," growled Peter.
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